


I Would Doubt Me, Too

by AliceTheBrave



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwarf & Hobbit Cultural Differences, Dwarves aren't the only ones who can keep a secret, F/M, Family Secrets, Insecure Bilbo Baggins, M/M, Magical Hobbits, Mutual Pining, The Shire, Thorin Is an Idiot, mutual annoyance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 153,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceTheBrave/pseuds/AliceTheBrave
Summary: In hindsight, Bilbo has no earthly idea what he's doing here.He's of no use in a proper fight and quick wit and unnatural plant life will change very little about that.Bilbo has no idea what he's doing here and he dearly hopes that the Shire doesn't either.Some laws are very old and are not wisely broken - a shame, considering he's broken damn near every one of them.And if Thorin keeps up his terrible attitude he might just break another.(Whether that would be to throttle him or to kiss him, well, that remains to be seen.)





	1. An Unexpected Departure

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Yo también dudaría de mí](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24118504) by [JulianEarthSon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulianEarthSon/pseuds/JulianEarthSon)

He must have been out of his mind.

Between all the confusion and affronted disbelief brought on by thirteen smelly, loud, foreign, and frankly _rude_ dwarves crashing into his smial and decimating the entirety of his larder he must have went and gone truly _mad._

Because here he was running after them with naught but a walking pack and his traveling coat.

Running after them, waving a contract around his head that must have been sailing behind a good few yards at the very least, with his hastily scribbled signature drying in the air at the very bottom.

He’d actually gone and signed the damn thing.

Oh, he’d really, truly lost his mind, he had too have because no Baggins in their right mind would sign on as a burglar of all things.

Why, of all the disreputable occupations- a sneak-thief!

He’s entirely sure no Baggins aside from his own self had ever stolen a thing since the family began.

And for that matter, while he’d done his fair share of mischief and subtle skulking about in his youth -as any Tookish young lad was wont to do -he’d never attempted to burgle a- a damned _dragon,_ thank you very much!

And they didn’t have any proper plan, at that! Not that they’d tell him, at least.

In fact he wasn’t even quite sure what it was he was supposed to be stealing from the indominable beast.

Not that it mattered to him of course.

He had heard that dwarrow were a secretive race- wary of strangers and unknowable in their ways.

They did not share with outsiders, this much he knew, but he’d found his interest peeked by these hard-eyed, proud creatures.

And once he’d learned of their quest his interest had faltered just a quickly, curiosity making way for horror and outrage.

(And this he would insist for weeks to come, to anyone who asked and to himself most vehemently, even as his own conviction in it faded early on.)

He had heard, too, that dwarrow were a warrior race. Even the jewelers and scholars of their folk trained with blade or hammer or axe.

He himself had no interest in blade or bow, or any other craft of war making.

(Though a tiny wooden sword, hidden deep in his closet and worn thin around the grip, some days called to him in whispers he had long tuned out.)

Indeed, no proper Hobbit ever did.

(And no one spoke of those Hobbits that wandered away into the forest at night and did not come back, for it was never any surprise when they did so, the oddness in them growing more evident as every day passed.

‘Too much of the Old Blood.’

Some would whisper, but not often, it was best not to speak of such things.

Old Stories called to Old Blood the way a flame called to a moth.

It was best not to tempt. Best not to chance.)

What would his Father ever say if he saw Bag End now? Overrun with Durin’s Folk, laden with bow and axe and knife. Drunken singing bellowed from the front rooms, mud traced in Grandpa Mungo’s rugs, laughter sprang from sitting rooms long emptied.

(Bilbo did not know what Bungo would have to say about the matter, not really. He liked to pretend that he did, as he liked to emulate his father’s respectability at all times. To honor his memory and his wishes. But the Dwarves were singing of home and he felt it run through his marrow and he knew he was losing his grasp on what it was that Bungo had wanted from him, really.)

And when he had woken early that morn, restless from dreams of duty and promise, he had awoken alone once again.

Bag End no longer rang with laughter and drunken song, and no footsteps lurked in the front rooms.

Bilbo paced, and nodded to himself, and sighed at the rightness of it all.

(But it was not right, not at all. Hobbit holes were built large and built warm, built for large families, and many padding feet. Little mouths to feed with larders fit for a company of Dwarves, and room upon rooms for kin to be close, to be counted, and clustered, and treasured. Hobbit holes were built large and they were built warm and Bag End was the largest and coldest in Hobbiton.)

Bilbo stared into his empty dining room, and the warmth left from thirteen bodies made the coldness seeping in from the many winding halls farther back all the more frigid.

So he had grabbed his travelling coat and threw some supplies into his old walking pack, and signed the damned contract and run out his front door to escape the winter that threatened him from all sides.

He had truly lost his mind he knew, but what else was there to do trapped alone with naught but ghosts for company for years on end?


	2. Concerning Hobbits

They had been on the road for naught more than a fortnight[i] and he was quite sure that whatever madness had taken him – Tookish or otherwise – had faded with the spring sunshine.

It had been raining for three days nearly without pause and he was soaked to the bone, unprepared as he had been.

He was without a proper bed, a proper bath, or even a proper meal and had been for far longer than any gentle-hobbit had been for a very long time.

(Not so very long, really, he knew hunger and he knew wanting but that was yet another thing not spoken of. Ill things always came when called, as Old Took would say.)

He was also, much to his disheartenment, without proper good company.

Though he was not ill-treated it was quite clear to him that many of his travelling companions did not care for him one way or another in the best case and were quite suspicious in the worst.

He wondered why on earth he had run after these confounded Dwarves if he was going to be just as lonely in either case but with a much fuller stomach had he stayed home.

Up ahead, a copse of heavily boughed oaks offered some small shelter from the deluge and, much to Bilbo’s relief, Thorin called the Company to a halt and the order to make camp went up.

Dismounting from his pony, shakily and with no shortage of winces, he moved to tie up his steed with the others.

Securing her to the tree he felt rather sorry for the poor thing, drenched and miserable as he was but coated in the mud he had avoided astride her back.

Feeling that rather Hobbit-ish kinship with beasts and birds that made them excellent farm folk, he sighed as he dug into his pack for some scrap of clothe to wipe her down with.

He was not one to let others suffer needlessly, and besides, she was the only company he’d truly had aside from Gandalf.

“Come now, love,” he murmured as he approached her, damp shirt in hand, “let’s get you dry.”

Rubbing down her long nose, he met her glassy gaze, and chuckled a little to himself as the water dripped into both of their eyes.

“Well, drier, at the least, hm?”

The pony whinnyed at him duly, and he snorted to himself with a wry smile.

So lonely that he’d started talking to animals like an old miser? What on earth was he coming to?

“Well, I suppose you aren’t much enjoying yourself either, are you, Old Girl?”

He continued on in his work, chattering lowly to the beast as he went, until he was interrupted by an amused chuckle.

“Do Halflings oft talk to beasts?”

“Or is that skill yours alone, Master Boggins?”

Turning in surprise to the dwarfs who addressed him, he blinked up at them through his sodden curls, and tried to remember their names.

They were the younger pair he knew, the dark haired one having a much thinner beard than any of his peers, and the fairer rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet in a way that made Bilbo think of mischief and cool summer nights running from angry farmers with laughter on his lips.

Endeared at their youth despite himself, he smiled at them warmly, chuckling at their brief blinks of surprise.

“I’m afraid it’s a bad habit of mine,” he turned back to pat the pony’s nose gently, “though she’s been good enough to tolerate me, all the same.”

The fair one laughed boisterously, and his brother grinned in delight.

Fíli and Kíli, he recalled, though if pressed he could not tell which was which.

Bilbo thought that they were brothers, probably, because their names were similar in the Dwarven fashion, and because he knew that twin mischief like that was very rarely born of separate wombs.

Though, he mused looking at the darker of the two, he wasn’t entirely sure of how to identify a dwarf woman from a man. He thought that perhaps, this one’s thin beard might be a sign of the fairer sex, but he was not wont to make assumptions.

“Well, what does she say then?”

“I’ve never heard the thoughts of a pony before, do tell!”

Bilbo stared at them blankly for a moment, wondering if perhaps they were a little slow despite their quick tongues so far.

Though when he considered the eagerness in their smiles, and the faintly hidden awe in their gaze it occurred to him that they’d likely never met a Hobbit before.

They did not know anything about him other than where he lived, his name, and that he was friends with a Wizard.

He was likely even more of a mystery to them than they were to him.

He at least had some books and stories, few that they were, to inform him of the people with which he traveled. He very much doubted that there were any books written on Hobbits outside of the Mothom-house[ii] and even fewer stories.

(In fact he was quite sure of it. That would draw far too much attention, and the last Hobbit to have such an idea had been promptly been escorted to Michel Delving and left in the Lockholes there until he quite miraculously changed his mind, at which point he was released by leave of the Thain. He was pardoned by both the Mayor and the Shire-Moot[iii] and Bilbo had never heard of the incident again.)

Regardless, Bilbo could not blame the boys for their fanciful beliefs- as far as they knew he could very well fly if given half the chance.

“I’m afraid that I couldn’t tell you,” he smiled at them a little apologetically as disappointment crossed their scruffy faces, “though I might try despite myself, I’m afraid I cannot understand the speech of horses.”

“Well, of course not!” Spoke the fair one quickly, a flush rising visibly beneath his beard.

“We were only teasing you, Master Boggins!” Assured the darker one, tugging at one of his- their hair braids nervously.

“You oughtn’t be so literal!” They chorused, laughing sharply to cover their foolishness.

Bilbo was rather amazed at their synchronicity and felt bad for embarrassing them too.

“Oh, my apologies, Master Dwarfs,” he said sincerely with a bow, pretending to buy their horrid excuses, “although…”

Standing up with a thoughtful look he hummed to himself rather dramatically in a way that always made fauntlings anxious for whatever ideas he was cooking up. Just as he had hoped, the two dwarves lit with curiosity again, and he had to struggle not to smile at the sight.

(They were younger than he had thought them, he could see now and a small part of him felt justified in running out of his doorway at last. It had been a rather long time since he’d visited his cousin’s and their children. He’d missed it more than he’d thought.)

“What is it, Master Boggins?”

“You can tell us, Master Boggins.”

“It’s Baggins,” he corrected absently, patting his pony with consideration, “and I was just thinking that I rather thought I heard Gandalf talking to the Gamgee’s goats once. Though I couldn’t be sure, I’m certain a wizard would know something of the tongue of beasts, wouldn’t you think?”

He turned to the pair expectantly only to find them grinning madly, the darker haired one clinging to the other and practically vibrating with excitement.

“Fíli, do you think-“

“It couldn’t hurt to ask-“

“Let’s go- where is that-“

“Mad old wizard!”

They whispered to each other -rather loudly, always loudly with these dwarfs, even when they tried to be quiet- and turned to find their token Tall-man.

They made it a few steps before the fair one – Fíli, that was Fíli – stopped and grasped Kíli by the scruff to stop them too. Wheeling them both around he forced Kíli’s head into a slight bow, his own following soon after.

“Thank you, kindly, Master Burglar,” He said, tossing a charming smile to the surprised Hobbit.

“Oh, aye, thank you!” Chimed Kíli happily if not slightly delayed.

They dashed forward quickly, jostling each other roughly as they went and whispering madly all the while.

Bilbo watched them as they crossed the slowly forming camp and only realized he was smiling fondly after he lost sight of them.

The rest of the night passed rather quietly, as lonely and boring as the dozen or so before it.

If Bilbo felt the gaze of their Company’s leader lingering upon him suspiciously, he attributed it only to the mad whispers and the furtive glances the two troublemakers sat beside him kept throwing the Hobbit.

If Bilbo could hear them so clearly from the other side of the camp, he was sure that Thorin could from where he sat only a few yards away from them.

And that was a thought to consider.

Bilbo, curious thing that he was, had spent his long hours among Dwarves who paid him little to no attention if they could help it, studying them with an attention that, had he been a less subtle Hobbit, might have caused him a fair bit of trouble.

As it were, he had discovered that Dwarvish naming conventions followed that family units usually had a shared suffix, and no surname to speak of.

So it followed that Fíli and Kíli were siblings as were Dwalin and Balin, as he had learned upon their first meeting.

So he thought that surely Óin and Glóin were kin, as were Bífur, Bofur, and Bombur, though he was hesitant to say how closely related as of yet.

In addition, the family groups stuck close together and often laid their bed rolls in tight clusters amongst each other, though that was not to say that they shunned closeness to the others either.

Except for him and Gandalf. Of course.

And he could not say that he minded because though he was too polite to say so, they all smelled something awful.

(And it was not as if he was unused to a lack of touch or the comfort of closeness. He had been quite alone in Bag End since the last dredges of the Days of Dearth had faded out of the Shire.)

So it seemed, as he unrolled his bedroll fairly close to the conspiring younglings, that Thorin was somehow related to Fíli and Kíli though their names did not match and Thorin had a surname where none other in their party did.

Bilbo perhaps wondered if this was because of his status as would-be King.

He knew that it was not uncommon for some families to choose new, higher names, to bear when they assumed a throne, though he had not thought it practice amongst Durin’s Folk.

Not that he would really know, in any case.

Though Bilbo supposed that they must have been related because, aside from their sleeping arrangements, Thorin tended to keep a subtle but ever vigilant watch over the two of them. His gaze often wandered to them, as if to assure himself of their safety, and his gaze was fondly exasperated more often than not.

Bilbo didn’t quite understand why he felt the need to be secretive about his attentions, but Bilbo supposed it must have been some kind of attempt at Kingly aloofness.

Still, it made Bilbo feel sorry for the young ones.

One would have to be blind to not see that they thought Thorin the greatest hero they’d ever seen. They looked at him as if he had hung the stars from the sky by his own hand and Bilbo could tell that they desperately sought to earn his approval.

Bilbo felt a pang in his heart as he realized that was a gaze he had once bestowed upon his own father.

Was Thorin their Father?

Bilbo didn’t think so, he was too distant for any kind of father Bilbo had ever seen, but he would be the first to admit that neither the hearts of Dwarfs nor Royalty were known to him.

He was deep in troubled musing over what was, frankly, none of his business when a hand on his shoulder startled him.

“You oughtn’t to frown so deeply, dear Bilbo,” spoke Gandalf as he lowered himself to the ground beside the Hobbit, “you’re too young yet to be developing wrinkles, my friend.”

He smiled warmly at him and Bilbo felt a weight being lifted off of his shoulders as he returned the gesture.

Gandalf spent most of his time in the front of the company advising Thorin as they rode, and so Bilbo was alone with his thoughts and his pony more often than not.

(Hobbits were not meant to be alone.

They were not built for it. Bilbo had not realized how much he relied on the knowledge that his distant relations were close at hand if ever it got to be too much. Not until that assurance was gone, cast away by his own hand in some desperate attempt at making kith out of strangers from a people not even his own.)

Gandalf’s smile faded slowly into a frown as he gazed at Bilbo, and he had the wild fear that the wizard was reading into his dark thoughts.

“What troubles you, my boy?” He murmured, genuine concern in his voice and Bilbo relaxed marginally before leaning into the old man’s side, a gesture he had often indulged him in as a child.

“Only fatigue, Old Friend, not to fear,” he closed his eyes slightly as he reached out to pat the old man’s hand, realizing that he was actually quite tired after all.

The wizard hummed in obvious disbelief and Bilbo quirked a smile at the sound of it.

“You know, I’ve just had the strangest conversation with our princelings over there,” he spoke after the silence dragged on comfortably for a moment, and Bilbo was grateful lest he fall asleep on the wizard’s side, “they were asking me whether I could speak the tongue of horses, of all things.”

Bilbo did not open his eyes, but his smile grew wider yet, and his cheeks ached with it, out of practice as they were.

“How strange a question,” he murmured, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice, “wonder what made them ask it?”

“Hmmmm,” huffed the Old man, clicking his teeth in mock annoyance, “what, indeed.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but chuckle at that, turning his face to bury it in Gandalf’s robes as he snickered, the old familiarity from his youth a relief in the dark of the wild.

When he looked up, eyes sparkling with mirth, he found Gandalf gazing at him fondly, amusement and relief mixing in equal measure in his eyes.

“Well as far as children go, they aren’t the most mischievous I’ve ever met.”

Bilbo quirked an eyebrow at that, smile still on his face.

“Oh,” he asked, seeming quite surprised by this, “are they not?”

“Certainly not,” Gandalf was smiling widely now, as he bent to whisper dramatically into Bilbo’s ear, “unlike some I could name they do not insist on skewering me with their little swords at every opportunity.”

Bilbo remembered a curly haired little fauntling, dashing through the Midsummer Eve crowds, a well-worn wooden sword in hand, as he threw himself at a mountain made of soft grey stone, and the laughter that rumbled from it every time he landed a blow.

Unable to contain himself he burst into laughter at the memory, his youthful antics so foolish in light of his years, and his stomach began to clench with the force of his mirth.

“Oh,” he gasped out, soft chuckles escaping him still, “Oh, but I’m sure that can be remedied.”

He threw a mischief laden smirk at the wizard as he said, “With a little instruction from a master, of course.”

And this time it was Gandalf who burst into laughter, Bilbo following soon after.

They settled after a time, soft chuckles escaping either of them intermittently, and Bilbo sighed with contentment as he let his gaze wander across the fire.

Sitting on the other side were the two young brothers in question, -brothers, yes, Gandalf had said Princelings- staring at Bilbo with a new kind of wonder, that had him taken aback a little at the sight. He couldn’t think of what he had done to earn it.

Smiling a little awkwardly at them he nodded his head in greeting, and they nodded back slowly as if in a daze.

Confused, Bilbo turned away and began to settle his bed roll beside Gandalf’s, this time forgoing the several foots distance they had kept until then. He had been wary of the wizard, much more threatening now than he had seemed in Bilbo’s memories, but now he was reassured that he was not so different after all.

(He supposed it was himself that had changed during their long years apart.)

A comfortable silence descended upon them, and as Bilbo gazed through the Oak leaves to the stars, he felt content for the first time in a long while.

“So,” he murmured quietly, barely heard over the fire and the rain, “can you speak Horse?”

Gandalf burst into laughter once again and Bilbo grinned so hard his face would be sore well into the next day.

And indeed, though he was out of practice it was not so much to prevent his fond smile when the two Princeling’s maneuvered their ponies around to ride along aside him somewhere near noon.

“Hail, Master Burglar.” Fíli intoned, a charming smile that would have tweens from Tuckbourough to Buckland in a tizzy being tossed to the Hobbit in question.

“Good Afternoon, Master Boggins.” Kíli chirped from his other side, smile a touch more mischievous but no less charming for it.

“It’s Baggins,” he corrected with a shake of his head, “And Good Afternoon, your Highness’.”

Fíli’s charming smile faded slightly at the formality, and Kíli outright wrinkled his nose.

“Come now, Master Boggins,” Fíli said, a wry smile working to replace his former cheer, “no need for all that.”

“There’s no place for titles here,” Kíli assured, gaze sweeping over the company with a fair bit of pride, “among friends on a quest as arduous as this.”

Bilbo found himself rather dumbfounded.

To be given leave to address royalty with such informality was one thing, as they hardy carried themselves like Princes, rough and wild with none of the regality which Thorin bore like a mantle.

But it was the implication of friendship that drew him up short.

Here to for, none in the company had extended such an offer and indeed most seemed rather sure he oughtn’t to have come at all.

Bilbo must have let his surprise show too much on his face, because Kíli glanced at him nervously before beginning to backtrack.

“I only meant- ah, well, you see-“

“He meant, that we would be glad to count you as a friend, in time, if it pleases you, Master Boggins.” Fíli, spoke over his sputtering brother, smiling warmly at Bilbo before throwing his brother an annoyed scowl.

Kíli seemed to pout slightly, shrugging his shoulders in a helpless gesture and doing something subtle with his hands that Bilbo didn’t quite catch. Whatever it was it must have meant something for it caused Fíli to roll his eyes in exasperation.

“It’s Baggins,” he corrected absently, rather surprised at this turn of events, and the hopeful eagerness of the Princes, and at himself for the surge of delight and fondness that swept through him, “oh, well, yes I suppose that would rather please me. Only if it pleases yourselves of course, I’d hate to be presumptuous, simple thing that I am.”

He found himself chuckling, half nervous and half delighted as he glanced between the Princes with a shaky smile.

The two smiled at him, evidently pleased with his answer, amusement and a disconcerting trace of surprise flitting through their twin gazes.

“Hardly presumptuous, Master Boggins,” Kíli assured, hand reaching out to tap his shoulder gently, though it retreated quickly at the start that it gave Bilbo.

“We’d not have offered, if it wasn’t our desire, Master Boggins,” Fíli added, scolding glance catching his brothers’, and twitch of his hands seeming to convey more than Bilbo could see.

“It’s Bilbo,” he corrected, smile growing into a truly aching thing at the delighted surprise of the two Dwarfs at his side.

“Bilbo, then!” Kíli crowed in delight, sitting straighter atop his pony looking for all the world as if he’d just won a prize at the fair.

Fíli grinned something fierce, maneuvering his pony a few steps closer to Bilbo’s own, and Bilbo was distracted at the ease of it and jealous of the skill.

“In that case,” he said, self-satisfaction lacing his tone, and Bilbo could not wrap his head around the fact that his name was causing them such delight, “no more of this ‘Master Dwarfs’ nonsense from you either, Bilbo, friend.”

“’Dwarfs’,” Kíli snorted with no small amount of distaste and Bilbo’s confusion must have shown on his face because the elder Prince made a sound of realization deep in his throat.

Bilbo was startled by it, their youthfulness somewhat distracting him from the fact they were in fact two fully grown Dwarf men. Larger than him by a margin, and strapping, and bearded, and with voices like the rumbling of stone down the mountainside.

Boys, perhaps not, he thought a little wildly.

“Dwarfs’, is a word of Men,” Fíli explained, surprising patience in his tone, “it’s hardly correct grammar. We tolerate it because we’d rather not waste our breath correcting folk who are not likely to pay any mind to it.”

“A friend ought to say Dwarrow, instead, for the lot of us” Kíli added, a wink being sent in Bilbo’s direction, “a dwarf alone is fierce but dwarrow together are nigh invincible.”

And he smiled at this, every inch the proud Dwarven Prince he was meant to be, and Bilbo wondered that he had lost sight of it under the pervasive mischief he wore like a cloak.

“Oh!” Bilbo gasped out, horror filling his voice at the fact that he’d been walking around speaking as though he were some unlearned simpleton.

No wonder they hadn’t wanted to be very friendly with him! They must think him and idiot, and besides they were a very proud people and he could tell by the looks on their faces that, slight grammatical error it may be, it grated on them something fierce.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I hadn’t known!” He said, voice heavy with guilt and distress.

Fíli and Kíli both blinked at him in slack jawed surprise and, had he been less frantic, he might have wondered why.

As it was he was quite eager to explain himself and make amends.

“Oh, you see, it’s only that I don’t know very much about dwarrow,” he assured, hand wringing his pony’s reigns tightly, “and I’ve been hesitant to ask. You see, what little I do know is that your culture is very important to you and I would be loath to overstep any boundaries, you see. But, oh dear, I’ve already gone and done such a terribly rude thing, I am so, terribly, sorry!”

When he looked up with frantic eyes, it was to see Kíli half turned around in his saddle, awe painted on his faintly bearded face and Fíli staring at Bilbo as if he had three heads.

“Ah, well,” Fíli said, faintly as if quite unsure what to say himself, “that’s alright. Hardly your fault, Bilbo.”

“Oh, but I am so terribly sorry, Fíli,” Bilbo insisted, trying to impress his sincerity unto the Prince, “you will tell me if I make such a mistake in the future, won’t you? Oh, I’m terribly ashamed at myself- the rudeness!”

Fíli seemed to blink out of whatever nonsense stupor he’d fallen into and smiled in awe filled delight at the smaller man beside him.

“Of course, I will, Bilbo,” he said, seeming to gain some small delight in using the Hobbits name nearly every sentence, “And truly it’s quite alright, we’re used to it. Aren’t we, Kí?”

Looking over to his brother, Fíli’s face crumpled into exasperation as he was now all the way turned about on the ponies back, eyes flickering between the forest canopy, darker than it ought to be this time of the year- indeed darker than it had been moments before, behind them and the small creature beside them.

“Oh, aye,” Kíli replied, blinding grin in full force as he leaned precariously lower to get a better look at the Burglar’s face, “not a problem, Bilbo! Apology accepted, my friend!”

He crowed into delighted laughter, as relief washed through Bilbo, and though he was faintly amused at their strange antics he found himself warmed by their generosity.

Three ponies ahead Bombur had begun to sneeze fitfully at the deluge of pollen escaping from the bright blossoms suddenly blooming in the trees above their head.

Fíli smiled fiercely and turned to Bilbo with a look that promised nothing but trouble in the future.

“Tell us about Hobbits,” he demanded, breathless with delight, and eager as a dwarf half his age, “we don’t know a thing about your kind either, I’m afraid.”

“Not a thing,” agreed Kíli, “and a damn shame, too.” He laughed to himself, some joke that Bilbo missed passing between the brothers.

Smiling indulgently Bilbo began to slowly expound upon Hobbits and the relevant things thereof.

(Within reason, of course. Dwarrow were a secretive lot but Hobbits had their fair share of secrets too. There was a reason these two knew next to nothing of Hobbits, and even if sharing this much was not technically illegal, it was certainly not the done thing. If the Shire ever heard of it, he was sure to get more than one reproachful glare.)

“Six meals in a single day!” Gasped Kíli, delight and horror warring for a place on his face.

“How do you manage to feed the lot of you?” Fíli wondered, thinking of the several hundred small folk he had seen in the few short days they had wandered the Shire-lands.

Bilbo laughed at the question, his chest warm with good company in a way it had not been for a very long time now, and he thought that surely none could blame him for indulging these two, tradition be damned.

“We’re excellent farm folk,” he replied, no small amount of pride in his tone, despite the fact he himself had never done honest farm work a day in his life, “why, we have fields from the Far Downs to Bree, and a few more still if you don’t mind the property disputes.”

At the baffled look the Princes shot him, he shrugged and a little mischief of his own came to play in his eyes.

“Some have whispered of expanding out to the Westmarch toward the Tower Hills, you see,” he said softly, conspiracy in his tone, and the Princes leaned closer in concentration to hear, despite not having the faintest clue of what any of these names meant, “but they’ve yet to convince Old Took of it yet, and so nothing proper can be done.”

“Old Took?” Asked Kíli, at a loss for what nearly all of that statement had meant but latching onto the title in particular.

“Mm, yes, or The Took, sometimes,” Bilbo nodded fondly, memories of long winter nights curled up on one of the rugs in the Great Smial as his grandfather read to all of his many grandchildren warming his heart, “though his truly astounding age makes it rather more fitting to call him the latter, these days.”

“And he is an important Hobbit, is he?” Asked Fíli, snickering slightly at Bilbo’s irreverent snipe at the elder.

“I should say so, yes,” Bilbo laughed, his curls bouncing along with his ponies trotting, and he fought not to smile at the way Kíli kept seeming to get distracted by an errant curl over his left shoulder, deep brindle eyes darting to it every other minute or so, “he is the Thain of the Shire, Lord of the Four Farthings, and has been such for longer than I’ve been alive.”

Silence hushed over them for a moment and a glance to his sides showed the Princes in deep thought about his words.

“So he is King of the Halflings, then?” Kíli asked, quite a bit more interested now, than he had been a moment earlier.

“No,” Bilbo said shortly, wrinkling his nose in distaste, “he is Chief of one of the three Houses and Head of the Took Clan, and since the Thainship has been passed through the family line for generations he happens to hold the position.”

“Right,” Fíli said slowly, blue eyes as sharp as his brother’s narrowed in thought, “and this does not make him King of the Halflings?”

“No,” sighed Bilbo, irritation growing further, “the Thain is no King. He holds the power of the King in his absence and since the throne of Arnor has been empty for centuries now he has come to rule over the lands bequeathed to us by law.”

“And this,” Kíli said slowly, just as cautious as his brother, “still does not make him King of the Halflings?”

“No, it does not,” Bilbo snapped in annoyance, gaze flitting in exasperation between the princes, “because Hobbits claim no such titles and because we are not ‘half’ of anything, thank you very much!”

The two looked astounded at his outburst and Bilbo felt a flush rise along his cheeks, ashamed at his temper. A rather Tookish trait he’d inherited from his Mother, he’d always strived to be more level-headed as his father was.

(Mostly at the insistence of his Father, who had become concerned that his darling son was rather more Took than Baggins and much more influenced by the Old Blood than any Baggins could abide.)

“’Halfling’,” he began slowly, softer than he spoke before, smiling at the boys apologetically, “is a word of Men.”

Realization seemed to come to the two in varying degrees, and now it was their turn to flush in shame.

“And what word would a friend say, Bilbo?” Fíli asked, softly, a silent apology in his smile.

Bilbo smiled at him brightly, feeling truly fortunate to have gained the attentions of such kind and understanding Dwarven Princes as these.

“Oh, just Hobbits is fine,” he assured, and he moved to reach out and pat Fíli on the shoulder in assurance but thought better of it, “or Shire-folk."

After a moment’s thought in which the princes seemed to communicate solely through twitches of their hands, Bilbo had come up with a better answer. He did not think that they would be pleased with his first answer, one which they had already known, and was anxious to keep their interest.

(Selfish though it was, he was not quite willing to part with friends as interesting as these quite yet.)

"And in Rhorric, we are called Holbytla which is not so bad as far as names given to us by Men go. Ah, but the Elves call us Periannath. It’s not oft used, and not much liked besides.”

“What does that mean?” Fíli asked, voice gone tight in suspicion in a way that made Bilbo lean a little away in surprise.

“Probably an insult, I’d wager,” answered Kíli, disdain clear in his voice and the way he stuck his long nose in the air, “Elves being worse than Men when it comes to their treatment of others, and all.”

His brother hummed in agreement and reached out to pat Bilbo’s back reassuringly, and Bilbo managed not to recoil at the touch this time.

(Hobbits were fond of casual touches, quite fond in fact, but Bilbo being a bachelor, and living alone, and being a gentle-hobbit – The Baggins, at that, though he was too young to bear the title when he did – there had been created a barrier of societal rules around him, and the only ones rightfully allowed in it he either did not like or would have to travel past Underhill or over the Brandywine to reach.)

“Not to worry, Bilbo,” Fíli reassured, pleased at Bilbo’s acceptance of his touch, “We’ll not let any insult you such, now that we know.”

“Aye,” agreed Kíli eagerly, pulling his pony closer to Bilbo’s with much less grace than his brother had, “friends look after each other, after all.”

He paused for a moment with a thoughtful frown.

“Well, at least they do for dwarrow,” he muttered, glancing at Bilbo curiously, “I’m not quite sure about Hobbit-friends, though.”

“We’ve never had a Hobbit-friend!” Fíli said, delight as clear as day in his eyes, and Bilbo was rather sure that gaining friends should not feel like being added to a collection of prized petunias but here he was anyhow.

“Yes well, I’m quite sure friends look after one another in nearly every culture where friendship exists,” he replied, a bit lost for what to say to a declaration such as that, “but I’m sure the intricacies must vary between cultures, so if there are any friendship customs among your people, I should like to know them.”

Realizing that this may be considered as him prying for information, and would be ill-received as such, he hastened to continue.

“I’ve never had a dwarf-friend, either,” he said quickly, nervous smile flashing to the two Princes, “and I should like to be a good friend to you if I am able.”

Two twin smiles blazed at him from either side, and he was quite sure that he’d never made anyone quite so happy in all his life.

Simultaneously, the two reached over to catch him in a one-armed embrace on both sides, and though he could feel the impressive strength of their arms against him he was pleasantly touched at the care with which they handled him.

(He had not been embraced properly in several months’ time, and naught for more than a moment in even longer. And though he’d never before found himself in the grasp of creatures as hard and ungiving as these, he found their warmth a comfort all the same.)

The two broke out into some traveling song that they’d been singing in pieces for more than a week, and this close to them Bilbo could finally make out the words he had been straining to hear.

“And on the road-“

“on the long, long road,”

“between the trees and bale,

“I met a bonnie wee lad,”

“who served the best damn ale,”

“I ever did have!”

And Bilbo could already tell this whole singing venture of theirs was going to get well out of hand, but he couldn’t find it in himself to stop their fun.

And if he caught their Leader’s surprised and suspicious gaze as he laughed along with the two, he thought it was just as well he ignore it.

Just because Thorin seemed to like being miserable did not mean Bilbo was inclined to do the same.

* * *

[i] The company had already been on the road for a few weeks by the time that they encountered the Trolls. 

[ii] The Mothom-house is a museum like place in the Shire’s capitol of Michel Delving. It is traditionally where Hobbits who no longer want them store ‘Mathoms’ or objects, especially old ones, that no one has particular use for anymore but do not want to throw away. 

[iii] The Shire-Moot being their House of Lords or rather Well-to-do Busybodies. Hobbit politics are ridiculous and although I’m going to try to stay as close to cannon as possible this stuff is five levels of positions that don’t really do anything. So in general just keep in mind that although there are important sounding government positions in the Shire most actual law and politics is handled by the Gentle-Hobbit families of any particular area. For instance, the Tooks preside over Tuckburough and the Brandybucks over Buckland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to use Tolkein's preferred plural for Dwarves which is Dwarrow.  
However I'll still be using words like Dwarven, Dwarvish, and Dwarf so just remember Kili's little saying and you'll be as learned as any dwarfling.  
Dwarrowling? If a she-dwarf is a dwarrowdam then a child-dwarf ought to be a dwarrowling, right?  
Good heavens, I need to brush up on my Neo-Khuzdul.


	3. Roast Mutton

Thorin liked to think he was a pragmatic sort of King, whatever Dis may say about the matter.

This was perhaps the only reason he had permitted the Halfling to join this quest of theirs.

They needed a burglar, and by all accounts any recommendation of a Wizard’s was to be heeded.

That and the fact that, though all skilled dwarrow of the highest caliber of honor (Nori’s own sticky-fingered inclinations pardoned by his willingness to come on this fool’s quest, of course) more than a third of his company were untested in battle. Of those that were, only a mere handful including himself could be called true warriors.

So in truth, when he sat in a quaint little hole in a hill, well fed and bone weary, and staring at the little creature who lay sprawled across his own hallway, unconscious for fear of a Dragon he’d never even seen, Thorin felt a resigned sigh build in his chest.

‘Why not,’ he supposed to himself, ‘what’s one more odd little creature to add to this pack of oddities.’

It wasn’t until the next morning, when he was well rested and once again brimming with the determination that had led his people to their refuge in the Blue Mountains, that he thought better of that decision.

A quaint little thing such as that would do them no good and only slow them down.

Another mouth to feed with nothing to offer in return save for a pretty face and tinkling laughter.

Thorin was not fool enough to deny his own curiosity for the Halfling.

He had never seen a Hobbit before, not close enough to inspect at the least.

While it was true that caravans from Ered Luin were granted passage through the Shire, they were careful to keep to the Great East Road and rarely stopped for more than rest or supplies.

The warnings of the Dunédain- rather, their thinly veiled threats of physical and political repercussions, kept most dwarrow from involving themselves over much with the Shire-folk.

Though many found their fierce protection of the Halflings and their continued patrols of their borders both absurd and suspicious, wariness had given way to leering and jokes of how the Tall-folk likely confused the soft creatures with a village of babes left in the wild.

It helped perhaps, that neither Dwarrow nor Hobbits were particularly curious of each other nor willing to share more than necessary to maintain good business relationships.

And Thorin, perhaps more than most dwarrow, had never had cause to involve himself with a Hobbit face to face. If his troupe had needed supplies someone else had acquired them and if they needed drink, they more often than not made for the Men’s town of Bree.

Rowdy drunk dwarrow would likely not be welcome in an establishment of the gentle folk and even if they were, he doubted the Rangers would approve of it.

So for him, who had never seen a Halfling but for glimpses of small figures from the road, Bilbo Baggins was novel.

Of course, Hobbits had been described to him before, mostly in drunken songs and tales of wild conquests in the Prancing Pony. But he was not quite prepared for what he found in that hole in the ground underneath a hill.

Bilbo Baggins was…soft.

Yes, he was soft and delicate in a way that quite baffled Thorin.

His face was round and sun-goldened, with dignified lines around his eyes and mouth that spoke of deep thought and free laughter. There were freckles dotting the bridge of his nose, and Thorin wondered how on earth the thing had managed to grow so many. He had no beard, not even any stubble to speak of, and though it should have made him seem a babe, there was a maturity about him that forbade the very notion.

His eyes were large and bright, and shone with a wit that was perhaps the only thing that had convinced him that this over polite man could perhaps be a proper Burglar after all. Thorin had still not found the proper color to describe the shade of green that was his gaze, for neither emerald nor jade glistened in such mirth or fractured the light with such heart.

And Thorin could admit that he forced himself not to think on it. There were far more pressing concerns than the precise color of a Halfling’s eyes, for Mahal’s sake.

His ears were a strange point of conflict among the company, many declaring them far too elf-like for comfort, though others including himself thought them a suitable thickness and shaped rather like the tapered leaves of a Birch tree. Much more appealing than the sharply sweeping point of the tree dwelling filth.

He was of a pleasant plumpness, entirely becoming and respectable, though he had near to no musculature to speak of. It was a rather alarming lack of strength to be sure. Thorin had seen dwarrowlings with more muscle definition than this creature.

And while Thorin had been told that Hobbits had fairly large, hairy feet, he had not been prepared for the veritable paddles lined in fur that he had been presented with.

The damn things were so large Thorin wondered how on earth he didn’t trip over them as he walked. There was no way such cumbersome things would be conducive to any amount of sneaking or burglaring. Not at all.

But he walked with such a light step that Thorin had oft lost track of him in the few weeks they had traveled together. When moving about on his own power, without the aid of the pony he continually despaired of, he made not a rustle in the grass nor a snap in the underbrush. He did this without seeming to be trying often enough that some of the company had begun to grumble about getting the strange creature a bell to wear around.

Despite his misgivings about the Hobbit’s unsuitability for questing, and there were still many, Thorin had begun to concede that perhaps a natural talent for thievery was one of his few skills.

His hair too was odd.

A golden-brown color, that was not at all uncommon, it was curly in a way Thorin had never quite seen before.

It was not the tightly coiled curls of his kin to the south nor of some lines of men he had met. It hung in loose spirals about his head, a waving, bouncing crown which he wore too short for any dwarrow’s liking.

Each curl hung in locks that waved in the breeze about his ears and brushed across his brow and they looked so soft that Thorin had to wonder at the strange thin texture of it all. His own people had much courser hair than this, and it came in all varying shades of color and texture so beautiful that their plaits glistened in fire light like no other race could rival.

But the halfling’s hair was fine like silk, and yet curled in gentle sweeps, and Thorin had thought too often on it for any propriety to withstand.

Would it hold a plait? Would he grow it out enough to try?

Thorin had begun to curse under his breath in frustration every time the thought came to mind.

Curse his curiosity and curse the strange fairness of the Shire-folk.

And curse their foolishness as well.

The damn thing, he had come entirely unprepared.

When the spring rains began, as the Halfling surely knew they were wont to do, he had been without any cloak to speak of let alone the oil-skin coats worn by the rest of the Company.

The others had been too wary of the Hobbit to speak to him, unwilling to step over societal boundaries they did not know of, and entranced by the exotic marvel of him.

They did not however mean that they did not speak of him.

Mahal knows it had been all Thorin had heard of for the past few weeks.

“The poor wee lad looks miserable,” muttered Balin by his side, voice low even as he spoke in their native tongue, “frail thing looks half-drowned.”

Throwing a glance over his shoulder to the end of the line Thorin would agree that he was soaked to the bone, but he could not say that he looked anymore sullen than usual.

It had been a small disappointment for all a few days into their journey when Kili had observed that the Halfling did not smile overmuch, and indeed hardly at all.

A strange disappointment from the few stories of the Hobbits’ infectious levity that they had all heard.

“He has none to blame but his own self,” Thorin grumbled, even as his eyes began to search the road for a shelter from the rain, “we cannot stop for one Shire-ling left in the rain.”

In his heart though, a part of Thorin blamed the Wizard for whatever ill mood had taken the Hobbit as well as for leaving him ill-equipped.

Casting a glance to the Wizard who rode alongside him cheerfully, Thorin felt a flare of annoyance at the audacity of him.

Thorin did not know what kind of relationship the two had but it was obvious that they were familiar enough for Tharkûn to coax the wee thing out of his home with naught but a few quiet conversations and a night of rest.

And besides, Tharkûn had called Bilbo his friend.

For him to be humming to himself so cheerfully while riding alongside the King as his supposed friend brought up the rear alone, miserable, and more than likely afraid-

It was not right.

Thorin felt the distaste of it burn in his throat but said nothing to either the wizard or his kin.

It would not due to question a being so powerful, and in truth it was none of his business.

To his people, leading one’s friends knowingly into danger, unprepared, and with no support, was a grave affront to their honor. Such a thing was unthinkable, a betrayal of the trust between battle-brothers, and guild mates.

To dwarrow who oft lived their lives unmarried, bonded only to their trade and their guild, friendship was integral to the very fabric of their society. It was no throw away word, as he had seen it used amongst men.

They believed wholly in the notion of family beyond blood, though blood always came first.

Unsettled by the Old Man and not trusting himself to ride beside him without speaking his mind, Thorin was greatly relieved when he spotted a copse of trees in the distance.

Turning to confer with Balin, he flicked his gaze along the line, lingering on his nephews where they rode beside each other, water laden and pouting.

Though he would never admit it to another soul, deep in his heart he was deeply uncertain of their presence on this journey.

They were grown dwarrow, he knew, and had more of a right to ride on this quest than any other save himself. They were Durin’s Sons, Heirs to his line, and Erebor was theirs as much as it was his. They were battle tested, and well trained. He ought to know, having begun their instruction himself when they were only pebbles.

And therein lie his wary heart.

He could not look upon their faces without hearing shrieking laughter and feeling tiny hands grabbing at his beard. They were his kin, his Sister’s sons, and he had raised them as his own from the moment his sister called him into her birthing chamber to hold the pink and wailing bundles.

He had promised Dis and Vili both that he would look after them.

He had led many dwarrow to their deaths. War was not kind and even the greatest of their kind fell under the hammer of war. He had lost many for whom he cared to the rage of battle.

He had led Vili to his death and now he feared so too would he lead his sons.

And he knew that he could not often act as their Uncle on this journey. Though it pained him, he had a duty to all those gathered here, his kith and his kin and others still who had followed him out of nothing but love for their King and their people. He could not show favor to any few dwarrow beyond that which station allowed, and even then, all of those gathered had proven honor above station.

Balin interrupted his thoughts with an agreement to stop for the night.

Nodding, Thorin called them to a halt and sent up the word to make camp.

Cheers called back to him, and he was warmed by the spirit of these proud few who would follow him into a dragon’s den.

Dismounting and handing his pony off to Dwalin with an appreciative clasp to his shoulder, Thorin began to mete out the duties for the night.

After they had all been left to their own devices, Thorin set to finding Balin and Tharkûn to once again confer over their set course for the next day. Looking around for his aged advisors, he was surprised to see his nephews loitering near the ponies. He was further surprised to see them speaking with their resident burglar.

Frown marring his face, he was set to go over and prevent them from terrorizing the melancholy creature when a peculiar sight stopped him short.

The Hobbit was smiling.

Thorin had not yet seen him smile, he knew, but he did not think it would be a significant thing, merely an indicator of his state of mind as with any other.

He was wrong.

Many a drunken dwarrow, recounting their tales of a blissful night at an inn in Bree, had expounded upon the warmth and radiance of a Halfling’s smile, gifted in the night and gone before morn. He had thought them overly dramatic and scoffed at the lot of them.

But the way the Hobbit was smiling at his nephews made him think that he had been too hasty in his judgment then. It was a warm thing, bright and comforting like a hearth, and terribly fond, as if the dwarrow he gazed upon were his own kin. His own young ones to treasure and to hold in the dark and the cold.

Thorin felt something uncomfortable squirm in his chest at the thought and could not say what it was.

Envy, perhaps, that the strange thing could look upon his nephews with a fondness that he could not allow himself too.

Pity, maybe, at the sadness and longing in the edges of his smile, a faint memory that Thorin did not know him well enough to place.

Longing, perhaps, though for what he could not say.

Turning away, he continued his search for Balin, resolving to allow the Hobbit whatever comfort his mischievous nephews could offer.

He would need it in the difficult days to come.

It was not till later that night that he thought of the Hobbit again.

Settling near his nephews by the fire – as was his right, and one of the few pleasures he would allow himself until Erebor was theirs once more – he listened to their conspiring whispers. He had long ago learned that though it would be an affront upon the privacy of any other, his nephews did not mind over much as long as it was him alone that was eavesdropping upon them.

He supposed that they took comfort in his overbearing suspicion, symptom of paternal worry that it was.

Besides, they had ways of communicating with each other that even he could not decipher, if they so wished.

“-ever gave us a straight answer, you know.” Grumbled Kili, dark head bowing against his brother’s shoulder with a disgruntled huff.

“Shouldn’t ‘ave expected a straight answer,” Fili replied, tiredly, “blasted Old Man only-“

“Speaks in riddles,” interrupted Kili, making his displeasure with the old Wizard quite apparent.

Thorin did not know what they had been discussing with a Wizard of all people but decided as they had not brought it up to him and had survived the encounter that he would spare himself the headache of asking after it.

He made a note to remember this incident the next time one or both of them accused him of being overbearing.

“We ought to let Master Baggins have a go at it,” Kili piped up, voice taking on an inspired tone that Thorin knew from experience only brought trouble.

“Oh, aye, he and Gandalf were friends, weren’t they?” Fili said, nodding along with his brother, and Thorin privately scoffed at the question, the day’s earlier troubles catching up with him.

“Maybe he can speak Wizard, too,” Kili chuckled, eyebrows wiggling in some approximation of suggestion that Thorin knew better than to think on.

“He ought to have more friends than a mad old wizard, though,” Fili said, completely ignoring his brother, as he rested his head against his, face contemplative as he snuck glances over to the Hobbit in question.

“He’s a hell of a lot more fun than he seemed,” Kili nodded along excitedly, snickering as if remembering a particularly amusing encounter.

“And he’s very kind, too,” Fili mused, seeming to be a little astounded by the fact, as he brought a hand up solemnly to pat his brother’s face as one would stroke a horse.

Kili snorted in amused outrage and bit at his brother’s fingers before Fili could retract his hand completely.

Fili jostled his head off of his shoulder roughly in retaliation and Thorin sighed as he readied himself for the oncoming wrestling match.

Just as Kili was gearing up to launch at his brother they were distracted by the sound of crystal cut bells tinkling in the breeze.

Looking over the fire, they were met with the sight of the halfling, half curled into the Wizard’s side, head thrown back into delighted laughter, genuine happiness on his face for the first time that Thorin could recall.

Thorin could not, if pressed, tell why he felt the instant sense of relief that he did seeing the Hobbit smiling in joy, but he put it down to reassurance that the Wizard was not leaving him to his own devices.

Though rather indifferent to those outside of his own people, he was not one to enjoy seeing others suffer needlessly.

Though he could not explain the rapture with which he listened to his laughter or the interest with which he watched the Hobbit lean in to whisper something to Tharkûn, smile sharp and wicked.

There was that quick wit that had impressed him so in the Shire, absent in the long days since.

There was that smile that had bewitched many a drunken dwarrow, made sharper by mischief but none the less warming for it.

And as the wizard threw his head back in booming laughter that shook the camp, he wrapped an arm fondly around the shoulder of the helplessly chuckling Hobbit.

As they settled down Tharkûn gazed upon him with amusement and, much to Thorin’s surprise, no small amount of fatherly pride.

Tharkûn had assured him that their Burglar was skilled, trustworthy, and a Hobbit of the utmost character- in as much as a burglar can be.

He had sworn by his own word and upon his honor that Bilbo Baggins was more than qualified to come on this adventure. More than qualified to face down a Dragon.

He had agreed to Thorin’s demand that he not be held accountable for the Shireling’s safety nor his fate.

He had agreed to these things and offered up this Hobbit on a silver platter and now he laughed softly along with him as they settled down to rest close to each other’s sides, a loose Family Pile if ever Thorin had seen one.

He had led this creature to a looming death and now he treated him as if he were his son.

Thorin felt the bile rise in his throat but knew he had no place to accuse the Wizard.

Looking upon his dumbstruck sister-sons he knew that he was no better.

He rested fitfully that night, self-loathing and determination warring for his heart all through the night.

And as they rose with the sun and made ready to break camp Thorin felt an irrational spike of annoyance every time he caught sight of the halfling, faintly smiling as he made ready.

The fool. Led like a lamb to the slaughter.

The rain had finally decided to have mercy on them, and it was proving to be a clear if not slightly damp day as they pushed along the road through overarching forest canopy.

He had been fairly content with staring ahead to the middle-distance as he rode, fingering the cord upon which the secret Key rested angst his breast, when the raucous sounds of his nephew’s laughter caught his attention.

Turning slightly to gauge the danger of their mischief, he was not expecting to find them bringing up the rear.

Kili was turned about in his saddle, riding his pony backwards precariously, as he gazed up in wonder at the incongruous sea of blossoms that trailed the company.

Thorin was quite certain that they had not been there when he had passed under those boughs moments before.

Fili was bent low, his face close to the Hobbit as he spoke excitedly, the Hobbit answering with a delighted smile and a pleased flush.

He began to speak and finally Kili turned back around to ride properly, his gaze flickering in excitement between the Hobbit and the spontaneous blossoms that seemed to bloom in their wake.

The Halfling grew more animated as he spoke, hands beginning to move faintly through the air, and Thorin had a wild notion that Hobbits must have their own gesture language just as dwarrow had.

“You oughtn’t worry over much, Your Majesty,” Tharkûn spoke from his side, amusement twinkling in his ancient eyes, “just a harmless bit of Shire magic. Doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, most likely.”

He narrowed his eyes at the Wizard in suspicion, opening his mouth to say something sharp when Balin interrupted from his other side.

“Shire-magic?” He asked, old eyes curious underneath his heavy brow, “I hadn’t known Halflings to possess any such power.”

Tharkûn laughed softly, some private joke passing between him and absolutely no one else.

Thorin grew weary of the Old Man who increasingly kept to no counsel but his own.

“You hadn’t known many Halflings then, Master Dwarf,” he chided, chuckling in good humor such that it made it impossible to be affronted by it.

“No,” Balin agreed, indulgent smile crawling across his weathered face, “I cannot say that I have.”

“And who the hell has?” Chimed in Dwalin, gruff and annoyed as he ever was as he rode slightly behind his King and his brother.

Grumbles of agreement rumbled through the dwarrow close enough to hear, and Thorin merely reminded himself that prying ears were to be expected.

“Well, I for one have,” Tharkûn replied, an obvious answer that caused some to bristle at the smugness of it, “And I have found that, though you may not always get an answer, asking the Hobbit in question is by far the best way to learn anything about him.”

Dwalin snorted unattractively behind them, and once more Thorin was glad that he had brought him along to be uncouth where he could not.

“Oh, aye,” he agreed sarcastically, “and cause the wee thing to burst into tears at the sight of us. Lad seems like he’d break under the attention.”

Chuckles went up in agreement and even the King found himself nodding along.

Though he had been told that the Hobbit had been rather spirited, if not confused, upon first meeting them in his home, no sign of this spirit had made itself known since.

Indeed, apart from being hesitant to speak to an outsider whose customs were so unknown to them, many had feared that the halfling would burst into tears should anyone try to speak to him.

Tharkûn frowned from where he sat on high, gaze frustrated and Thorin got the odd impression that he had been offended on the Hobbit’s behalf.

“You underestimate him,” he snapped, gaze flickering to Thorin pointedly, “Bilbo is not so weak as that. There is much more to him than you know.”

“As you have said,” Thorin replied, mock patiently, “and as he has yet to show.”

Indeed, the Hobbit did nothing but quietly bemoan his pony, and his lack of both handkerchief and bath, and trip over logs about camp.

Never mind that his clumsiness was the only way for any of the dwarrow to keep track of him.

“Well, perhaps he might,” Tharkûn replied, gaze turned thoughtful and smug all at once, “given half the chance.”

Thorin replied with nothing but a noncommittal hum, dismissing the conversation that was ultimately pointless.

Tharkûn sighed mightily atop his horse, eyes rolling heavenward, and Thorin wondered idly which among the Valar a Wizard would pray too.

“Hobbits are not so alien as to shun good company,” Tharkûn said, frustration obvious and mutters coming between sentences, “indeed they are rather a cheerful sort and make perhaps the best company of any on Middle-Earth. One need only pluck up the courage to approach them as a friend.”

Squawks of outrage followed the statement, cries refuting any cowardice coming from all sides and even the King glared mightily at the Wizard.

Tharkûn only smiled at them widely, a mischievous glint in his eye that Thorin knew for a fact he was far too old to still possess.

“Observe,” he said, tilting his staff backward to where the Hobbit and Princes trailed the company.

Eyes narrowing on the wizard briefly in annoyance, he obediently turned his gaze back to see what on earth they were up to now.

And was at a loss for what to think when he found the Hobbit stuck snugly between his nephews, their arms wrapped around his shoulders like a vice, as they bellowed some vaguely inappropriate song that they’d been cooking up between themselves since leaving Bag End.

More surprising than this- the overbearing cheerfulness of his sister’s spawn none too surprising -was the way the Hobbit rode along between them, seeming quite pleased to be there.

He smiled widely, his freckled cheeks flushed pleasantly -either from the attention or the raunchy lyrics he could not say- and his green eyes scrunched up in delight.

He opened his mouth and must have said something -likely an addition to his nephew’s song- though Thorin could not hear it. Whatever it was brought a look of delighted surprise to their young faces, and Kili very near fell from his pony with the force of his laughter.

Fili just pulled the halfling closer to him as he laughed, the small man seeming quite pleased with himself and whatever joke he had made.

Briefly the Hobbit’s shimmering gaze met his and Thorin was at quite at a loss as what to do with himself.

The Hobbit’s smile faltered briefly, and uncertainty dimmed his eyes before he tore his gaze away and leaned over to say something that had Kili in stitches all over again.

“Oh,” Balin’s voice ripped him from his thoughts, “he’s not quite the somber thing he seemed to be, is he.”

“No, no,” Tharkûn laughed, and there was that pride again and Thorin honestly didn’t know what the Wizard was thinking, “Bilbo’s quite the cheerful little Hobbit, always has been.”

His laughter faltered and he cleared his throat briefly, gaze gone distant and a little dark.

“Though in the time since I saw him last it seems circumstances have rather dampened his wild spirit,” he seemed concerned by this, and in turn the dwarrow around him muttered nervously to themselves. The concerns of a Wizard were great indeed.

“Ah,” he spoke, realizing the nervousness he had caused, “not to worry, this journey will be very good for him and most amusing for me.”

He gave another chuckle, and launched into a song of his own, quite done with the conversation for now.

Thorin, for his part, was quite preoccupied with thoughts of Shire-magic and the implications there of well into the evening, long after howls of laughter and the tinkling of bells had ceased.

“Uncle, uncle,” Kili chirped, excited and grinning as he settled by the fire that night, “his smile makes the blossoms bloom!”

Thorin winced at the fact that his nephew was rather prone to spouting poetry in lieu of stating plain facts.

“He knows all the best drinking songs,” Fili chimed in, smile just as bright, “even ones that we’ve never heard of!”

Thorin did not particularly want to speak of the halfling but his conversations with his kin of late had been only a precious few.

“It is to be expected,” he said, patiently, “you have never before drank at a halfling’s tavern.”

“We know, but we really ought to have,” Kili spoke quickly, as if what he was saying was of the greatest urgency, “Bilbo was telling us about all of his Hobbit festivals, and the Party Tree, and-“

“Hobbit,” Fili interrupted, quietly but with a graveness to his voice that commanded attention, “a Hobbit’s Tavern.”

His eyes were serious and hard, brooking no argument, and fiercely Durin Blue.

Thorin felt pride and confusion in equal measure.

“Pardon?” He asked, equally as grave, for he was not known to let a challenge like the one in his Heir’s voice lie unanswered.

“Oh,” Kili said, faint but sincere as if he had just realized what it was that had his brother up in arms, “oh, right. Thorin, you oughtn’t call them ‘halflings’. Bilbo says it’s not proper.”

Thorin felt annoyance trickle past his confusion. Who was the Hobbit to tell him what he could and not could say?

“Did he now?” He asked, danger clear in his tone, and he watched as Kili shrunk back from him in slight surprise. Fili only steadied his glare.

‘Good’, thought Thorin vaguely behind his immediate flare of annoyance at the defiance of it.

“He did,” Fili answered, gaze steady and calm in a way that reminded him fiercely of Dís, “we would ask you not to use that word, Uncle, lest it cause him offense.”

Thorin was growing to be quite sick of all the tiptoeing around the Hobbit that had been going on, lest any of them cause him ‘offense’.

If the Wizard insisted that he was not so delicate as all that then Thorin would stand by that assurance and call him whatever he liked.

If the Hobbit had a problem with it then he would surely say something himself.

“And what should it matter to you,” he asked, perhaps overly cruel but just as frustrated as he felt he was due, “if the halfling is offended? He can look after himself, or so Gandalf has said.”

Thorin did not like to use the wizard’s alias, foul a lie as it felt on his tongue, but when it came to the Hobbit he seemed to be more Man than Wizard from on high.

‘Tharkûn’ did not suit the affection with which he regarded the Halfling.

Fili made a displeased sound in the back of his throat, glare finally breaking as he flicked his gaze uncertainly to his brother.

“Because we would call him our friend, Uncle,” Kili answered, hesitant but growing in surety as he spoke, “and it was you that taught us to look after our friends.”

Thorin did not know what part of that statement took him more by surprise.

“Your friend?” He asked, incredulous, “You hardly know him! How in Mahal’s name came you to call a creature you’ve known naught more than a fortnight your friend?”

Kili’s brow furrowed in confused outrage and Fili grew to look downright furious but Thorin carried on before they could open their mouths to argue.

“I do not know who it was that taught you to give away your friendship so lightly,” he said, sharp and angry, “but it was not I.”

The two younger dwarrow blinked up at him in shock, hurt making itself known in the tense line of their shoulders and the way that they would no longer meet his eyes.

“And thank goodness for that,” came a soft voice, annoyed and scathing as Thorin turned to glare at the owner sharply, “’ere they’d have no friends to speak of for centuries to come, I’m sure.”

Thorin had expected Tharkûn or perhaps one of the In brothers to stand there, being of the few who had leave to speak to him in such a manner, but was outraged to find none other than the Halfling in question.

He stood there between the line of Durin and the fire, small hands curled as they rested on his hips and verdant eyes narrowed in anger and- to Thorin’s outrage- disgust. The fire reflected off his curls, creating the illusion of a faint amber halo, as his lips twisted in a scowl that would fail to cow a fly let alone a King.

“What,” Thorin said lowly, not as a question but as a warning, old temper flaring as he made to get to his feet.

The Hobbit watched him rise but stood his ground, glare steady even as the King loomed over him. Later, Thorin would admit to being impressed by this. Now it just angered him further.

“I said-“ he began, voice smooth and seemingly unconcerned with the fact that he had just wormed his way into an argument with a battle-named King.

“I heard you, Halfling,” Thorin interrupted, ignoring the way Fili flinched at the word and how Kili held him back, “I was giving you the chance to take back your words.”

Gentle folk or not he would not abide being spoken to like that by anyone other than his kin.

“Oh,” he replied, voice flat without the inflection that would normally accompany his words, “I think I’d rather not. You see I don’t take kindly to reprobates shouting at my friends.”

His eyes flicked over Thorin balefully for a moment before he continued.

“And besides I haven’t found you to be the most pleasant of sorts, Your Highness,” he said, sardonic smile tugging at his round cheeks, “and I don’t think you ought to be telling grown dwarrow who they can or cannot befriend. Kin or not.”

Thorin growled low in his throat, fury rising to his blood in a way that was familiar and comforting. Anger he knew what to do with even when faced with a Hobbit with which he did not.

“You know not of what you speak, Halfling,” he snarled, taking the few steps closer that brought him into the Hobbit’s personal space, “the favor of Durin’s line is not so easily earned. Certainly not by those of such little worth.”

He heard the gasps of outrage from his nephews but was distracted by the flash of hurt across the Hafling’s face and his slack jawed outrage. It felt good to finally cause some change in that expression that had been nothing but placid for weeks. Until his sister’s sons had stepped in, that is.

“How da-“ he began, voice rising in pitch like the tightening strings of a harp, and Thorin felt a vicious thrill of excitement for the row that was about to begin in earnest, when he was forced to step back by the long sweep of a staff in front of his nose.

It wasn’t until he was once again breathing his own air that he realized how close to the Hobbit he had gotten. Head clearing with the distance, he was surprised at the molten rage in the Hobbit’s eyes, fiercer than he’d have ever thought possible, little fists balled at his sides as if preparing to strike.

Thorin was surprised that the realization which should have angered him further only brought him heady amusement.

“Peace, my friends, peace,” came Gandalf’s voice, breaking Thorin’s racing thoughts, and drawing his gaze away from the flush of rage rising up the Hobbit’s neck, “do not let such small misunderstandings disrupt our camaraderie.”

“There is no misunderstanding,” Came the Hobbit’s voice bitterly, and when Thorin glanced his way it was to see his eyes closed and his breathing carefully measured, “His Majesty has made his opinion of me quite clear.”

Gandalf’s wrinkled eyes narrowed in Thorin’s direction and the King only held his chin higher in defiance.

He would not be cowed by this Wizard nor his little Sprite.

“Indeed,” He agreed, aloof and under control once again.

The Hobbit let out an angered hiss through his teeth, rather like a kettle set to boil, and his eyes flashed up at Thorin once more.

“Very well,” he said, lips curled back around pearly white teeth in a snarl, “but I’ll not be changing my feelings on the matter of your boys, understand. You may be leader of this Company, but you have no say in the matters of my heart.”

Thorin blinked at him in astonishment, displeasure seeping through his heart in a rush to ice away his rage.

With a glance and a tight smile to Fili and Kili behind him, the Hobbit nodded at the King guardedly.

“Good night,” he bit out and then spun on one very large furred heel and marched himself to the other side of camp.

Thorin was left feeling bereft of the warmth of anger that he had felt only moments ago and suspiciously wrong footed. Though it was not uncommon for Thorin’s temper to get the better of him, it was so for him to feel that he was in the wrong in the aftermath.

Glancing to the Wizard, Thorin felt lost in the absence of his righteous rage and the Hobbit’s answering defiance.

“Well,” the Old Man, huffed, glaring at Thorin in deep disappointment, “that was not at all what I meant when I encouraged you to speak to him. Not at all.”

Thorin opened his mouth to defend his actions when he was interrupted by Kili’s muffled giggles.

Turning, he found him pressing his face frantically into his brother’s shoulder as Fili blinked dumbly after the Hobbit.

“Did he just?” He muttered in a strange confused awe.

“By my beard, he called Thorin a ‘reprobate’!”

The two broke into hysterical laughter completely ill-suited of the situation.

“I don’t even know what that means!” Kili howled as he clutched at his stomach, and Fili laughed all the harder for it.

Thorin was suddenly very tired.

The next few days continued in much the same manner.

The boys would snicker to each other every time they caught his gaze and he had caught them accosting young Ori early the morning after that argument, likely after the young scribe’s encyclopedic knowledge of words that Princes ought to have known in the first place.

He had made sure to mention the idea of continuing their schooling to Balin. After they had reclaimed the throne, of course.

The two Princes kept close to their Burglar’s side during most of the day, and only returned to their Uncle long after night had fallen. They had taken to taking their meals in the Hobbit’s company and soon enough the Wizard had begun to join them exclusively. No longer could Thorin spend his supper contemplating strategy with the Old Man.

Their laughter grated at his pride but the annoyance that flared in him every time he heard the tinkling laughter of the Hobbit kept him from making amends.

He felt childish at the betrayal that burned him when the family Ur soon joined their circle, led by the ever personable Bofur.

It seemed the Toymaker had a soft spot for the Hobbit and Thorin told himself that it was likely because he looked like the children that would often buy his toys. And if he was frustrated that although the Hobbit possessed traits that ought to make him seem childish to any dwarf with eyes, he still managed to appear unfailingly masculine, that was his business alone.

As for Bombur, he put it down to the Hobbit’s natural propensity for homemaking impressing the cook and refused to comment on the significant improvement in the food’s taste from that point forward.

He had no such excuses for old Bífur but he had stopped questioning the warrior the day he had managed to get an axe embedded in his skull and walk away.

As it was, he knew that it was pure stubbornness that kept him from pulling the Halfling aside and offering his apologies.

He was not such a fool as to think that only warriors had worth. He would hate for the Hobbit to have such an impression of him or his people.

Dwarrow recognized the skill and importance of all manner of trades and traits apart from those found in War-makers.

Bombur was a respected Master Chef back in the kitchens of Ered Luin. He had begun his apprenticeship in the great Cooking Guild of Erebor which had once painstakingly collected hordes of recipes and cuisine from all manner of kingdoms and races across Middle Earth. He was no skilled warrior, no more than the average Dwarrow off the street- he had brought along a ladle for a weapon for Mahal’s sake.

But he was a master of his trade, and he cared well for his brother and wounded cousin, and he volunteered to follow his King on a mad quest back home.

All of these things were more than enough to warm any dwarf to him and earned the respect of the company and Thorin both.

In fact, many of these Dwarrow were not especially gifted warriors.

And that did not make them any less worthy of respect or honor.

It was a mystery to him more than any other why he had made such a grave insult to the Hobbit.

While it was true that it was improper for Durin’s Sons to so freely declare friendship to a stranger, he could not blame his nephews for it. The Hobbit was a kindly creature, who seemed more than capable of entertaining several Dwarrow at a time, and evidently did not balk at standing up for himself even against the might of a King.

These were all admirable qualities that, had he been a century younger, and raised without the burden of a crown as they had been, might have caused him to declare loyalty to the small thing just as they had.

But he was wiser now, and proud, and had learned of loss and betrayal and the power that true friendship had over his heart.

Still, too accuse one of having no worth- never had he been so cruel without cause.

It was the burden of this thought that sharpened his tongue carelessly when the Wizard argued against his decision to make camp in the shadow of the ruined farmhouse.

It was this guilt that choked his throat with alarm when Fili came stumbling from the brush with frantic eyes, hollering about Trolls and ponies and a captured Burglar.

It was not, however, what stopped the breath in his lungs when the Hobbit looked at him with his bright green eyes, filled with terror and pleading, as Trolls threatened to tear him apart.

It was not what forced him to lay down arms for fear of the Hobbit’s life.

No, whatever that was it was something much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For context here I'd like you to remember the sheer destruction and death that the Dwarrow of Erebor suffered through and the difficulty of the days to follow.  
It stands to reason that aside from losing most of his family in Smaug's wake and Azanulbizar, Thorin lost quite a few friends by their side. Not to mention the years of wandering to follow and the treachery that they undoubtedly faced from those they crossed on their path. Let's be honest nobody gives a wandering blacksmith a fair shake.  
Anyway, he'd become leery of trusting others enough to declare them friends and besides that Dwarrow are astoundingly uptight about these things in the first place.  
I hope that all made sense to you but if you have questions feel free to ask!


	4. The Enemy Appears

Bilbo had not risen that morning with the intent to provoke the anger of a Dwarf-King.

It seemed however that Yavanna’s will was against him, or at the very least the will of his Took blood.

His father had raised him better than this, he knew, better than to stand here insulting his betters, let alone to argue the will of royalty.

Unfortunately, his Mother had raised him to be loyal, and even the sleaziest, most despicable of his folk were viciously protective of those who held their loyalty.

So when he had heard Thorin scolding Kili and Fili, angrier than Bilbo thought was called for, he had felt inclined to defend his friends.

When he saw the shamefaced and pained expressions they bore- well, that had caused him to feel inclined to be rather insolent about it.

His Mother had, for better or worse, also taught him to wield a sharp tongue and a quick wit.

(Bilbo often wondered how much of his Took-ishness was inherent and how much he had learned from the dynamic force that was Belladonna Baggins née Took.)

Thorin Oakenshield was the single most intimidating creature Bilbo had ever laid eyes upon.

And that was saying something considering that he oft had a towering Wizard, of infinite power and wisdom, over for tea since he was but a wee sprout.

But Gandalf, for all that he was unnatural and prone to shadow calling and voice booming, had never given Bilbo the distinct impression that he would run him through with a sword if he did not mind his tongue.

And Bilbo must have been even madder than he thought, because instead of cowering away– as he ought to by virtue of being near a head shorter and considerably softer than the royal Dwarf – doubled down in face of the fear.

By Yavanna, he’d called him a _reprobate_.

He didn’t know what on Middle-earth had gotten into him.

(Except a deep-seated dislike for being told what he could and could-not do. A childish thing that he was supposed to have long outgrown.)

It was just that the King had impressed him, he supposed.

Thorin had shown great courage, if not astounding foolishness, in leading this quest with naught but twelve ill-prepared Dwarrow, a flakey Wizard, and a lost Hobbit for support.

He had shown himself to be fair and thoughtful of his people and their needs in the few weeks that they had traveled together.

And above all he had shown great love for his people, his family, and his home.

He ached for the lands in which he had been born, the mountain that held the memory of his Father and his Father before him and the childhood that he had lived there.

He keenly kept aware of his nephews, obviously worrying for them, but unwilling to step upon their right to follow him as their King. The respect and affection that he showed them, and the brothers In, and by extension the other Dwarrow had warmed Bilbo’s heart to see.

Home, family, and dear friends- these things Hobbits treasured above all.

Mad quest or not, no Hobbit would fault Thorin for his desires, noble and heart rending as they were.

(Hobbits had known something of wandering, once, before the Settling Days, and though those days were centuries passed, ancestral memory was thick in Hobbit blood.)

It helped of course that he was regal, and imposing, and strangely handsome for a Dwarf.

By Hobbit standards at the least. Not that Bilbo had given it much thought.

To be fair it was an attractiveness that his nephews had inherited as well and if he was speaking broadly, he could find many attractive qualities of both mind and body in several of the dwarrow that traveled with them.

So yes, Thorin had impressed him, and Bibo was rather disappointed to find him of such ill-temper that he would shame the dwarrow he had raised – yet another point in his favor, once Fili had divulged the fact with pride – for nothing but freely sharing their good-will and trust.

Hobbits were kindly folk who delighted in nothing better than the free giving and receiving of such warm sentiments and for Thorin to so strongly oppose it baffled Bilbo’s patient understanding of their cultural differences.

As it was, when Thorin looked at him with a burning blue glare, properly met his eyes for the first time since setting out, as if he was dirt beneath his heel, Bilbo lost whatever respectful caution he had carried with him to the King’s side.

_Reprobrate_, of all the things to call a King.

And Thorin had stepped closer, broad shoulders drawn up in rage, and the scent of metal and leather wafting off of him, and something had burned inside Bilbo’s chest that he hadn’t felt in years.

Thundercloud eyes flashed with warning and Bilbo felt his blood all but sing in response.

He was excited.

He hadn’t been properly excited in such a long time that he didn’t recognize it at first. And when he did, he couldn’t make any sense of it.

He had never delighted in confrontation, neither petty or vicious, and he did not know why he would begin to now.

His excitement did not last long, for as soon as he had registered the feeling, Thorin had opened his stupid, inconsiderate, waspish mouth and called Bilbo _worthless_.

To his face.

He had declared him worthless and undeserving of his nephews’ friendship and Bilbo had never been so insulted in his _life_.

Whatever excitement he had felt – at a battle of wits, he was sure, at garnering the King’s attention, perhaps – was washed out by a boiling rage he’d not felt since last he was called upon by the Sackville-Bagginses.

Even those ungrateful, conniving, jealous excuses for family had never dared to say such a thing to his face, not once.

The fact that this- this self-important Dwarf-lord, who knew him little more than a stranger off the street dared to say such a thing to him- as if he knew him!

As if he had the right!

(Any who had that right pitied him too much to do so or had been laid to rest long before they could.)

Bilbo would not stand for it.

He would not.

He was Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, The Baggins, Master of the Hill and he would not let some road-weary ruffian talk to him like that.

He was Bilbo, son of Belladonna Took, and he would not let this King cast him aside so easily! Not without a fight.

He opened his mouth to bite back, to say something vicious and angry, as his toes curled into the earth beneath him for strength, when Gandalf’s staff cut through the Green Touch he had unknowingly been weaving through the air between them.

The Wizard cut the vines of anger that bound them together and Bilbo gasped for air as the King stepped back in surprise.

Even the Wizard’s intervention and the revelation of what he’d very nearly done couldn’t dampen the sheer force of the anger that swept through him.

It would have served Thorin right!

“Peace, my friends, peace,” Gandalf chided, and he threw Bilbo a look equal parts shock and reprimand, “do not let such small misunderstandings disrupt our camaraderie.”

Bilbo could not believe his ears.

‘Camaraderie’, as if he had not been a pariah amongst these dwarrrow for the last two weeks and more.

As if Thorin had ever looked upon him as an equal or even as a useful subject.

“There is no misunderstanding,” he said, and he felt the certainty like acid in his throat, forcing him to close his eyes and breath through the desolation that was quickly seeping into him in anger’s wake, “His Majesty has made his opinion of me quite clear.”

Gandalf’s brow furrowed in confusion and he turned his accusing gaze onto Thorin at last.

The Dwarven King met his gaze defiantly, head held high in such a naturally regal gesture it made Bilbo’s teeth grate.

“Indeed,” he rumbled, and Bilbo had once thought his deep voice to be gentle and awe inspiring like rolling thunder but now all he could hear was the deep base of ostentatious drums, obtrusive and ill-suited for festival songs.

“Very well,” he snapped in response and damn the Dwarf King, and damn Gandalf for leading him into his service, “but I’ll not be changing my feelings on the matter of your boys, understand. You may be leader of this Company, but you have no say in the matters of my heart.”

And he did not.

He did not have any right to that, and to make that point very clear Bilbo made sure to smile at Fili and Kili reassuringly before he bid all a good night and stalked off to his abandoned bed roll.

And if frustrated tears welled in his eyes as he settled into a fitful sleep, that was no one’s business but his own.

He had been worried that the Princes would avoid him from then on, loyal as they were to their Uncle and just as eager for his approval.

So he was surprised when they once more joined him on the day’s ride, chattering about nonsense and obviously trying to coax a smile out of him.

They were careful to avoid mention of Thorin, difficult as it was for them not to boast about him at every turn.

Kind a gesture as it was, he couldn’t help but to indulge them. And if a few more flowers bloomed along the road in shades of blue tulips[i] and chrysanthemums[ii], he was sure only Gandalf would have anything to say about the matter.

(It was with a heavy heart that he realized dwarrow likely had little care for blooming things. They were creatures of the Earth – like him – but theirs was of the unforgiving rock and metals of Aulë’s domain.

There would likely always be irreconcilable differences between the children of Aulë and Yavanna, despite the model union of their patrons.

He tried not to think too heavily on that heartache.)

It wasn’t until later that night when he had settled down with his share of bland tasting stew that Gandalf finally sought him out.

Bilbo had been expecting this and was surprised that it had taken nearly a full day for his old friend to corner him.

“I’m quite surprised at you, Bilbo Baggins,” he said, settling onto Bilbo’s chosen log with an age appropriate groan Bilbo was sure he faked for appearances sake, “I’ve never known you so quick to temper nor so willing to abuse your gifts. Why, I can’t imagine what your father would say!”

Neither could Bilbo.

(Except that he could and had and had come up with some terrible imaginations indeed.)

“I’m quite surprised at myself, too,” Bilbo answered, honest in his uncertainty, “but I’ve never known anyone so quick to test my temper, either. I can’t imagine why you hadn’t thought to warn me before hand.”

If he had known that Thorin would be so callous and unreasonable he’d have curbed his admiration from the start and spared himself the disappointment.

“Oh,” Gandalf asked, amused or condescending Bilbo could not say, “and have said what, exactly?”

His unkempt brows rose to his hairline, as he puffed at his pipe in irritation. Condensation, then.

“Should I have told you that Dwarven Kings are an ill-tempered, stubborn lot?” He asked, great mane of white hair tilting toward Bilbo to meet his eyes.

“Should I have told you that Durin’s folk view many things through eyes much different than your own? That often things may seem commonplace for you that are not so for them?”

He pulled his pipe away and looked at Bilbo appraisingly and Bilbo had the wry thought that he too was gauging his worth.

“Should I have told you these things which you already knew?” Gandalf had softened his tone, a heavy sigh escaping him as he latched onto the end of his pipe once again, “I think not. I have far too much respect for you, my friend, to be so patronizing.”

Bilbo laughed bitterly to himself, stirring his ill-tasting meal before putting it to the side untouched.

“Well, at least someone here does,” he sighed, quickly hurrying on as he saw the way Gandalf eyed his untouched meal in concern, “but, yes, alright, you’re right, as always. I knew these things and had been patient enough about them until now.”

“And yet,” Gandalf said as he puffed out rings of smoke that Bilbo was certain were not supposed to be that color, “one insult from a Dwarf who, frankly, has no sway over you and yours and you were as angry as I’ve ever seen a Hobbit get - Took or otherwise.”

Bilbo studiously did not meet his gaze, large heel grinding absently into soft soil for comfort.

“Why is that, Bilbo?” He asked, soft, and concerned, and downright paternal, and something very young about Bilbo ached for it.

“I’m sure that I’d like to know, too,” he answered, just as soft and more choked than he wanted it to sound.

He did not know why he had been so hurt by Thorin’s words.

He had dealt with rudeness, and he had dealt with unfair opinions of him. Yavanna knew he had dealt with people who thought they were better than him – because they were older than him, or wealthier than him, or _bigger_ than him – and never once had he lost his composure like that.

He was a grown Hobbit, a well-respected, level-headed man, who was looked to for advice and example by the people of Hobbiton. He knew how to deal with unpleasant people, and he knew how to ignore ignorant words.

But, he supposed, never before had he been discounted out of hand by someone that he had found so admirable. Never before had he desired someone’s approval and seen no clear way to gain it.

(And there was the looming fear that Thorin’s disdain would sour whatever chance at friendship he had with the rest of the Company, or worse yet, the tentative friendship he had found with Fili and Kili.

Things not yet gained could not hurt to lose but he knew that now he had their regard, the Princes’ dismissal would hurt him terribly.)

Gandalf’s hand came to rest gently on his back, and as he rubbed soothing circles into his shoulders, Bilbo found himself rather pathetic indeed.

He was not some wilting flower that needed anyone’s approval to be happy.

He was independent and competent in his own right and while he may not be exactly happy with who he was, he was at the very least confident in it.

No King, crownless or otherwise, would change that.

“Well then,” he huffed, sitting up straighter and straightening out his waistcoat, “I must apologize for worrying you, dear friend. There’s little to be done about stubborn Kings and it seems rather fruitless to dwell on it any longer.”

Gandalf blinked at him for a moment before smiling slightly and nodding to himself.

“Quite right,” he chuckled, puffing away happily once more, “and I’m sure you have enough troubles, besides.”

Bilbo was pleasantly surprised that the Gandalf was willing to move on to a different conversation so quickly, and the tension he’d been carrying around all day eased slightly at the escape of it.

“Oh,” Bilbo asked, pulling out his own pipe, because he was stressed and he deserved it, “what troubles would those be?”

“Hmm,” Gandalf sighed mightily, and his eyes twinkled with far too much mirth for Bilbo’s comfort, “only two Dwarvish Princes who are not as unobservant as they seem to be.”

Bilbo did not know what expression exactly came over him, but it must have been something odd for the laughter that took the Old Man.

“Come now, dear Bilbo,” he chuckled, smoke billowing from his mouth in great puffs of amusement, “young though they may be, they are trained courtiers and Kili an archer, and an excellent one at that. They both are keen on subtleties, and a sea of blooms where they ought not be is hardly subtle.”

Bilbo was not sure if he flushed at being caught by the Wizard or paled at the realization of being caught by the Princes. The hot and cold of it made him slightly dizzy and the surprised breath of pipe smoke did not help his case.

“Oh dear,” he gasped, thoughts a mile a minute and none of them good ones, “oh no, that’s not good, Gandalf, not at all. I only did it the one time, this afternoon – they were being unbearably kind, you see, and it was only a few tulips on the roadside, I didn’t think- oh my, what am I going to do?”

Gandalf was frowning at him now, clearly not as amused by this as he had thought he would be, and Bilbo had a frantic thought of it serving him right.

“It’s terribly taboo to let outsiders know of the Green Touch, Gandalf,” he whispered, panicked and oh yes, he was very pale now indeed, “you know that. Oh, and what I went and nearly did to Thorin last night – if anyone were to find out, I’d be arrested on the spot! To use the Mother’s gifts in anger – what a disgrace!”

He devolved to muttering to himself frantically, pipe pushed into his mouth to shut himself up, even as his gaze fluttered about in panic.

Gandalf grasped his shoulder tightly and Bilbo almost winced at the grip, even as he focused on his face, heart rate slowing with the return of some of his senses. Never had the Old Man handled him so roughly.

“Bilbo,” he said lowly, sharply, weathered face closer to Bilbo’s than he thought was quite necessary, “calm yourself, my friend. None here would know your laws for such a thing, and I certainly wasn’t planning on bringing it up to them. They do not need to know. You understand?”

Bilbo nodded slowly, finally releasing his pipe and taking a deep breath to calm himself.

Naturally, he knew that. The Dwarrow had no knowledge of Hobbit laws regarding such things – certainly that would rather defeat the purpose. Even if they did, Bilbo rather doubted that they would care enough to turn him over to the proper authorities in the first place.

It did not mean that he would not feel guilty about it.

Not the little gifts that he’d secretly bestowed upon the Durin brothers. No, whatever the laws, he refused to be shamed into regretting something done out of genuine affection.

But the spell he’d woven last night, weaving vines of anger around Thorin, keeping him from fleeing if he had chosen to, infringing on his free choice as he had – that haunted him.

He had not known himself capable of such a thing.

It was pure luck – or pure Dwarven pride – that Thorin hadn’t even attempted to distance himself from the meager thing that dared to argue with him. If he had, Bilbo did not want to think about what would have happened, either to Thorin or himself.

To use his Yavanna given talents against another creature, to use them to bend another’s will to his, even if it was only the intent to do so and not the act, was a crime greater than he’d ever seen committed by a Hobbit in all his life.

And sitting upon the Shire-moot as The Baggins led to him being rather familiar with all manner of crime committed in the Shire. None such as this had been committed in living memory – at least not that had been brought to trial.

More than pain or anger, it was guilt that had torn at him all through the night and into morning.

“And aside from that,” Gandalf interrupted his measured breathing, seeming to be satisfied that Bilbo once again had himself under control, “it was not, in fact, just that one occasion with the tulips. Though it appears to be unintentional, you’ve been spreading tree blossoms behind the company since those two hellions first accosted you.”

Bilbo stared at him with wide eyes for a moment before he collected himself enough to place his pipe back into his mouth with a startled huff of disbelief.

Gandalf pated his knee reassuringly, amusement tentative as it crawled across his face, seeming uncertain as to whether Bilbo had wholly collected himself after all.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, though they both knew that he did, in fact, believe it as he had believed most all of what Gandalf told him since he could toddle.

“Yes, well,” Gandalf said, not unkindly, “you’ve always been a bit more Took than Baggins.”

He nodded to himself as if that explained everything quite nicely, and Bilbo was rather tired of discovering himself to be more Tookish than he had previously thought himself to be.

(Having evidently deluded himself into respectability for a good few decades would be a good bit of a joke if it wasn’t so terribly depressing.

Tookishness evidently displayed itself as an odd willingness to Go on Adventures, and to Shout at Kings, and Fight Dragons, and apparently Accidently Magic Blooms Into Being When One Was Trying Very Hard Not To.

He did wish someone would have warned him about that last bit.)

As it was, he could only mumble out a disheartened grumble of resignation as they continued to smoke and stare into the middle distance.

The silence didn’t last long.

He was learning that peace and quiet were not often found in present company.

In fact, Fili and Kili in particular seemed to have a natural hatred for it.

“Aren’t you going to eat, Bilbo?”

“You’ve hardly touched your dinner!”

Distressed a he was, Bilbo couldn’t help but smile up at the dwarrow as they approached him.

“Oh, I’ve eaten quite enough for now, thank you,” he assured them, easily ignoring Gandalf’s suspicious gaze.

Bilbo really wasn’t hungry, much to his own surprise, though he could feel the emptiness of his stomach plain as day.

“Well, you are a small little thing, I suppose,” Fili agreed after a moment of thought, sitting next to Bilbo on the log that he and Gandalf had claimed.

“No, it’s because you don’t like the stew, isn’t it?” Kili argued, sitting on the ground in front of his brother, and wedging his shoulders between the blonde’s knees.

Bilbo was about to assure them that the stew was fine, if rather bland, when an indignant squawk interrupted him.

“Who don’t like it?” Came a voice, equal parts indignant and amused. Turning to find the offended party, apologies already on his lips, Bilbo found a rather hurt looking dwarf of immense size and another with the strangest hat that Bilbo had ever seen – Wizards excluded.

The Ur family, he recalled, though he couldn’t seem to see their axe-wounded cousin lurking about.

“Oh no, it’s not that, Master Dwarrow,” he assured, pleased at the pleasantly surprised widening of eyes that he received, “it’s just that I’m not very hungry right now. Odd as that is for a Hobbit.”

He laughed awkwardly, even as Gandalf hummed in unhappy agreement.

“So you like it?” Spoke the rather immense dwarf and Bilbo had the thought that this might be the first time that he’d heard his voice.

“Ah, well,” he said, stilted and awkward, caught and unwilling to lie on top of his other recent crimes, “I’ve never had dwarvish cuisine before, so I suppose it’s rather good. The others seem delighted by it, and I’ve had much worse. I’d love to know what’s in it, if you’d like to share.”

This was all true, except maybe the last bit, but then again if he knew the ingredients perhaps then he could figure out something to add to it to give it a better flavor.

The large dwarf’s brows furrowed as he tried to parse through Bilbo’s words for his answer even as his brother snickered in amusement.

“Aye, but ya didn’t answer the question, lad,” he said, and Bilbo very nearly huffed at being called ‘lad’ – he was not so young as that, thank you very much.

He quickly remembered that this one’s name was Bofur and only because, at the sight of his amused smile, he clearly remembered being goaded about how very terrifying air-borne fire-breathers were.

He was rather sure Old Axe-head was called Bífur and only because he was difficult to forget. What with the axe and all.

So the large one must be Bombur. Bombur who was looking increasingly anxious as Bilbo avoided the question of his dreadfully bland stew.

“Hobbit tastes seem to differ slightly from yours,” he conceded with a sigh, apologetic smile aimed at soothing Bombur’s professional pride, “forgive me, but to me it seems a tad bit bland, I’m afraid.”

He was afraid that Bombur would become angry at this but instead Bilbo was surprised to see disappointment fill his eyes. He sighed heavily before dropping his bulbous chin unto his chest in defeat. Bofur patted his back reassuringly, encouraging smile giving way to apology as he shifted to look at Bilbo.

“Thanks for your honesty, Master Burglar,” he said and he was proving to be a very personable dwarf indeed, “ya see, my brother here is a chef by trade, and he had been worrying about that exact question for a bit of time now.”

He moved over to sit in front of the four of them, his brother lumbering along to sit next to him.

“It’s a point of professional pride, ya see,” he continued, “to be caterin’ to everyone’s tastes and all. We hadn’t the faintest clue what to feed little Hobbits though!”

Bombur was nodding along, fiddling with his beard morosely and Bilbo was very surprised indeed.

“Oh,” he murmured, surprise shifting to gratitude and delight, “oh, well that’s perfectly alright, Master Bombur! You needn’t worry about me, I’d hate to be a bother, and it’s perfectly understandable that you wouldn’t know about Hobbit tastes.”

Bombur looked at him in surprise and his brow furrowed into a kindly frustrated expression that Bilbo hadn’t expected from such a large man.

He had very gentle eyes for a dwarf on a quest such as this.

“What do Hobbits like?” He asked, determination shining through his gaze and Bilbo found himself smiling in delight.

“Spice,” he answered, automatic and forceful, “and sweetness if we can manage it. Sweet and spicy together is very well liked by most. Though if it’s a flavor that’s too sweet on its own, we usually serve something more bitter to balance it out. And vegetables. Lots of greens, of all kinds, often as we can.”

Bofur chuckled at his enthusiasm but the interest with which Bombur listened made it seem rather unimportant.

They continued much that way for the rest of the night, Bífur wandering to their group at some point and muttering something in a language Bilbo did not know before he settled beside his cousins.

He did not speak often and when he did it was in that unfamiliar language or with what Bilbo had come to realize was some kind of gesture language.

Bilbo was saddened that he couldn’t speak to the dwarf properly and made sure to smile at him as often as possible so that he wouldn’t feel excluded.

He had his fair share of relatives who happened to be hard of hearing, both young and old, and he wished faintly that the Shire’s gesture language had been universal. He had been as learned in it as he had the several other languages that he’d taken up but none of what Bífur was saying made any sense to him. Indeed, many of the movements were so subtle that he could hardly see them at all.

Still, Bífur seemed content to sit and speak through his cousins or simply bare his teeth at Bilbo in what might have been a smile.

At some point the conversation had shifted to Hobbit culture at large and he was equal parts amused and embarrassed when Fili and Kili felt the need to take over.

They relayed most all of what Bilbo had told them, embellishing those things they had taken interest in and forgetting quite a few that they hadn’t.

“And the Hobbit’s King is the great Old Took,” Fili said, ignoring the annoyed huff Bilbo gave him at his continued exaggeration of the title.

“He’s the oldest Hobbit to ever live!” Kili added, very proud of himself for remembering this fact – and it was an actual fact this time.

“That he is,” agreed Gandalf with a great deal more amusement than Bilbo thought was called for, “you know, I quite forgot to visit old Gerontius on our way through the Shire. How is your Grandfather these days, Bilbo?”

“Unnaturally spry for his age,” Bilbo answered, mischievous smile blooming at the thought of the worst of all the Tooks currently alive, “He led the Tuckborough team in lasts year’s Beltane race. Won too, though there are a fair few who insist that he cheated.”

Gandalf laughed heartily at that and Bilbo wondered idly if he would laugh at Bilbo’s elderly mischief someday too.

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Kili interrupted, excited and very desperate for absolutely no reason that Bilbo could see.

“Your Gradfather?” Fili asked, shock and delight stealing his breath as his mustache twitched in a mad grin.

“Yes?” Bilbo answered, very confused and very wary, “My mother was his ninth child, first of his daughters.”

Excited gasps of disbelief went up from all the dwarrow in their little group and Bilbo was no less confused.

“Ninth?” Asked Bombur, nearly reverent, eyes blown wide in shock.

“First daughter!” Bofur crowed, delight so intense Bilbo was almost afraid.

Bífur said something very fast and gestured frantically and his cousins nodded along in fervent agreement.

Gandalf chuckled when Bilbo looked at him for an explanation and shook his head in what was certainly not an answer.

“He had nine whole children?” Fili nearly shouted, leaning dangerously close to Bilbo and forcing him to lean back lest he get a face full of dwarvish beard.

“No, he had nine half children,” he replied sarcastically, annoyed at the strangeness of this conversation despite himself, “I don’t see what all the commotion is about but, if you must know, he had thirteen.”

The dwarves had nothing to say to that, it seemed, as they could only sit and stare at him in baffled delight. By Bilbo’s life, he’d never seen anyone so worked up about children. There were more than enough of them running around the Shire, Bilbo was almost tempted to offer the dwarves an evening with a hoard of his small cousins should they ever return to the Shire.

(Not that they ever would have reason, let alone desire to do so.

Not that it was guaranteed that he would ever make it back in the first place.)

“Three of which were daughters,” added Gandalf, as though that was vitally important, "Though if I remember correctly his youngest was adopted, so that is no credit to his genes - only his rearing." Bilbo did not quite know why he made the distinction. Adoption or not, Aunt Periwinkle was counted among his Aunts the same as if she had been born of Adamanta Took nee Chubb's own womb. In fact it was rather bad form to suggest otherwise, and Bilbo might have said something about it if the situation had not already been so odd.

“Four,” corrected Bilbo automatically, despite his growing annoyance, “you must have missed the announcement, but I believe Aunt Periwinkle was born Uncle Pywllald.”

“Oh, is that so?” Gandalf said considering, nodding to himself in an absent way as he watched the dwarrow that seemed to be struggling to process whatever it was that had shocked them so.

“Do your folk often have such large families?” Bofur asked quietly, and Bilbo was starting to think that maybe this was another difference between their peoples.

“Not always?” He answered carefully, “Most Hobbit couples that decide to have children – and not all do, understand - have at least three, but the average is closer to eight, I believe. It’s why we build our smials so large – besides that fact we usually live together in multi-generational groups and the space is very much required when the Old Folk start snoring.”

“Eight!” Kili gasped, grabbing unto his arm as though he needed the support.

“And so many daughters?” Fili asked, eager and curious, though he leaned into Bilbo’s personal space as though to discourage him from lying.

“Um, well, yes,” he said, trying to wiggle out from Kili’s grasp even as the Ur’s leaned closer to him in fascination, “nearly as many girls as boys, though sometimes more depending on the year.”

The dwarrow all leaned back in absolute astonishment at this, tittering to each other in their native tongue after a moment, nearly forgetting the presence of the two outsiders perched on their log.

Bilbo had been fairly certain that he was supposed to hear as little of their language as physically possible, which was why Bífur had used his hand gestures so often.

“Your people are very blessed, Master Baggins,” Bofur said after a moment, and Bilbo was growing very uncomfortable with the awe-struck gazes they all pinned him with, “very blessed indeed.”

“We’ve never heard of so many children being born to a single family!” Fili explained, head shaking and sending his golden braids flying far too close to Bilbo’s nose for comfort.

“It’s unheard of for dwarrow.” Kili agreed, grip still vice-like on Bilbo’s arm, as if he was some kind of surprise in and of himself.

“Oh?” Bilbo asked, relaxing under their gazes, his suspicions proven right and his own curiosity rising.

“Aye,” agreed Bofur as his brother nodded along frantically next to him, “it’s rare for us to marry in the first place, and of those that do, having but one little one can be a struggle.”

“Especially daughters,” Bombur added, voice soft and reverent on the very word.

“Dwarrow outnumber dwarrowdams nearly three to one, ya see,” Bofur continued, sad little smile gracing his mustached face.

“I hadn’t known,” Bilbo said, softly and nearly as reverent, he couldn’t have imagined growing up without his dozens of Aunts and his little cousins to cheer him through his lonelier years, “it sounds very difficult.”

The brothers Ur smiled at him a little awkwardly and their cousin grumbled something that sounded noncommittal under his breath.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” assured Kili, hand squeezing his arm in reassurance, “we wouldn’t know any different. It’s just the way things are.”

“But children are very special!” Fili said, grin luminescent and blue eyes shining with wonder.

“Aye, to hold a babe is the greatest of honors to a dwarf,” Bofur agreed proudly, fingers running over his mustache in delight, “and a baby girl a special honor indeed!”

Murmurs of delighted agreement went up around him and Bilbo felt that he needed to remember this moment. That there was something special about the honesty and openness expressed here and the reminder to appreciate what he had in abundance that others did not.

“Well then,” he said, no longer hesitating on what-if’s and surely-not’s, “should you ever pass through the Shire again you must be sure to give me fair warning and I’ll make it a point to arrange a play date with all the fauntlings I can round up. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to meet such interesting dwarrow as you.”

Gasps of surprise echoed around and before he knew it he had an armful of delighted dwarf-prince and another latched onto his side like an octopus.

They were both saying something as they nuzzled their scratchy, bearded faces into him, but he couldn’t make out the words over his own surprised laughter.

“Ah, that’s a mighty kind offer, Master Baggins,” Bofur said, and Bilbo was confused at the sad tilt of his smile, “but I can’t imagine their Mothers would much approve o’ a bunch o’ rough ol’ dwarrow handlin’ their little ones.”

The Princes stilled as they held onto him, glee dampened by the somber reality that Bofur had doused them with and Bilbo felt protectiveness well up in him unbidden.

As confident and worldly as they all were Bilbo often forgot that they had been wanderers for a very long time. They had often been without work and coin and Bilbo could not imagine the hardships that they had been through before their paths crossed his.

He knew the way that people whispered about vagabonds behind their hands, and he knew the way wanderers were treated with suspicion and disgust. He could not bring himself to imagine his friends being treated in this way; kind and noble as they had proven to be.

“It wouldn’t matter,” he found himself saying, hard and certain, “you’d be there as my respected friends and I can’t imagine anyone north of Tuckborough brave enough to disparage any friend of mine to my face – or theirs, for that matter.”

The Ur family was staring at him again with surprise but this time he was gratified to see a tentative thread of respect in their gazes. It was all a little ridiculous, this whole conversation – he wasn’t even sure that Bífur understood what he was saying! But he felt it was important that he defend them, even here, against imaginary housewives who wouldn’t know any better.

“Besides,” he continued, hands hesitantly resting on the stilled Princes’ shoulders and a wicked smirk in place, “us Tooks are rather known for liking the odd little adventure, and tea with a pack of Noble Dwarrow is a rather tame one at that.”

That startled a fair bit of laughter out of the lot of them and Bilbo was gratified to find that he still had that same sharp wit that had so delighted his Mother in his youth.

(He’d secretly worried that his tongue had grown useless and dumb with no one of worth to sharpen his skills against.

Though kind, the folk in Hobbiton were not especially bright.

And a Sackville-Baggins is good for argument, but they are petty and more rude than they are fun.)

“Well I expect they’d trust your word, anyhow,” Bofur said knowingly, and Bombur nodded along as Bífur puffed with pride before he’d even finished, “what with you being their Prince and all.”

“Me being their what, exactly?” He asked, incredulous, rather hoping he’d misheard him.

Judging by the excited tittering coming from the Princes which he was still trying to extract from his person, it seemed not.

Bofur looked at him in confusion for a moment, as if he was wondering if Bibo hadn’t gone and had a drink or two when they weren’t looking, and Bilbo was impressed at his acting skill even if it did make him want to throttle the behatted dwarf.

“Well your Grandfather is the King, isn’t he?” He asked and Bilbo was going to reply with a very loud, very annoyed, negative to that when Gandalf interrupted.

“Oh yes, Gerontius has held power of the King over those lands for many years now, I should say,” he said, puffing away on his pipe merrily, and then turning to Bibo with a raised brow, “isn’t that right, Bilbo?”

And technically yes, the Thain ruled over the shire and enacted the King’s laws in his absence.

(And he had been absent for a very long time, now. His kingdom fractured and divided and his warriors naught more than Rangers wandering the land wearily.

Hobbits had once been considered a strange off shoot of men, and the old oaths to the crown still stood, should Isildur’s heir yet live.)

“Well, yes, that’s true, but-“

“And said power will be inherited by his Eldest Son, yes?” Gandalf interrupted quickly.

“Uncle Isengrim, yes, but he’s getting on in years himself-“

“And if he should fall the office should be handed to his heir or his brother after him, yes?”

“Well, yes, but Uncle Isumbras is no spring chicken himself-“

“Well that there sounds just like a King to me!” Bofur crowed happily, much to Bilbo’s horror.

“And that makes your Lady Mother a Princess!” Said Fili, laughing far too close to Bilbo’s eardrums.

“One of many.” And Bilbo did not like the way that Kili was wiggling his eyebrows at that.

“And that makes you a lesser Prince.” Declared Fili once more, and the dwarrow would hear nothing of his protests on it for the rest of the night.

Or indeed the night after that or the night after that, all of which seemed to be spent in his company as if they had been there all the time.

They shared jokes, and bawdy song, and Bombur had confided in Bilbo about his ongoing courtship with a dam of Ered Luin, one he’d formally been courting for _years_ if anyone could believe such a thing.

It sounded absolutely excruciating to Bilbo.

(But dwarrow lived so much longer than his folk, and loved so much less frequently, and so much fiercer, at that.)

In the end, all had come to be on first name basis, delighted smiles being exchanged at the strangely formal way the dwarrow had of establishing a proper friendship.

Even Bífur had delighted at this, proudly sprinkling shaky gurgles of ‘Bi’bo’ between his mad grumbling.

And though he was greatly pleased by their kindness, and their wit, and had even come to enjoy Bífur’s odd interjection by proxy of translation, he could not chase away the anxiety that plagued him.

Cold blue eyes watched him, and though it was not constant, and it was not hostile, it was not kind and Bilbo had had near enough.

If Thorin was going to be cruel and rude the least that he could do was be professional about it.

(But he was a King by right if not by crown and Bilbo supposed that Kings did not have to do anything at all that they did not want to do.

In particular, they did not have to suffer the burden of no-good simple Hobbits.

He should be grateful to still be there.)

Still, he smiled and laughed and if flowers bloomed suspiciously around their camps no one said anything about it.

And if the Princes flashed him winning smiles every time that they spotted them, then it could not really be anything too terrible, at all, now could it?

So when Bofur had asked him to go give food to the boys, he had gone without a thought.

And when the boys had asked him to come with them to investigate their missing ponies, well he had to make sure they were safe about it, even if they were more familiar with these things than he.

And when they pushed him toward those thrice-damned trolls he pushed down the shocked outrage of it all.

(And his fear because, by Yavanna, he’d never seen anything so huge and disgusting in his life.)

And it wasn’t until he was three stories in the air, staring into Tom’s glassy eyes, and covered in troll snot that he properly thought about the mess that he’d gotten himself into.

Adventuring was all well and good, but he didn’t recall troll snot being in Balin’s contract. He wondered if Thorin would be willing to revise it.

It wasn’t until Kili’s enraged war cry cut through their stunned silence – the trolls being stunned that one of them had just sneezed out a wriggling biped and Bilbo because he was quite sure he was going into a proper medical shock – that Bilbo remembered to be afraid again.

And he was very afraid indeed.

More than he could ever remember being.

(And that was true because while he remembered the instance in which he was most afraid, more than he’d ever been, more than now, more than he likely ever would be again- he didn’t actually remember the fear itself.

Time and self-preservation had iced it over into a firm trepidation and a well-worn panic absent of the abject horror he knew it once was.)

When Kili began to fight the damn things, Bilbo’s fear grew more than he thought possible. If Kili had gotten hurt – well.

It doesn’t bear thinking about.

It was the addition of twelve other dwarrow, spitting and cursing, that brought him out of it enough to remember the reason for this mess in the first place.

And maybe it was cowardly that he didn’t fight while the others did, maybe it was wrong, but he was hired as a burglar not a warrior.

Fighting was not, directly at least, in his contract.

So, he burgled.

Though he was not entirely sure that you could burgle your own ponies that had been burgled from you in the first place.

Though ‘burgled’ implied stealth, which his attempt certainly had and theirs certainly had not.

Regardless, the ponies were stolen, and he had done it, and Dwalin had finally gotten that brawl he’d be grumbling about for the past week.

All was rather right with the world until suddenly Bilbo was once again three stories in the air and covered in troll snot.

Although this time he was not staring into the blank eyes of a troll, though a mad part of him wished he were.

Because now he was staring into the stormcloud eyes of Thorin Oakenshield and he was far too frightened to look away.

He was going to die and the last thing he was going to see was Thorin looking at him with the coldest rage he’d ever seen in his life.

He had only a moment to think that it was a shame before the strangest thing happened.

Something shifted in Thorin’s icy gaze.

And Bilbo felt something strangely like the urge to cry.

Thorin Oakenshield threw down his sword.

Bilbo was going to kill him.

(If the trolls didn’t manage it first.)

It was not until they had all been thrown into burlap sacks or tied to a giant spit that Bilbo calmed down enough to use his head.

As the trolls argued about the best way to eat dwarrow, Bilbo decided that he was quite done laying around and letting these half-wits get the better of him.

He had too much pride to allow himself to be killed by these absolute morons – more than ten times his size or not.

And well, his friends looked rather pathetic up there, trussed up over a fire in nothing but their braies and undershirts. He was rather privately amused at the prevalence of long johns and other assorted undergarments befitting Old Gaffers rather than strapping warriors.

So it was with supreme annoyance, and a fair bit of nerves, that he wiggled himself up, shouting at the trolls about having a much better idea.

He did not, in fact, know how best to cook a dwarf, and he was astounded for a moment that his life had brought him to the point of seriously considering the question.

What would Mother say?

(She’d have been delighted and had a fair few thoughts on the matter herself, he knew.)

As he desperately scrabbled for his answer, he caught the movement of an achingly familiar mound of grey fabric in the brush. Relief flooded him so quickly that he was nearly breathless with it. Determined, he had to come up with something to stall for time.

The dwarrow were not impressed with his inspired suggestion of skinning them and it seemed neither was Bert.

It was to his immense disadvantage that, as well as being astoundingly thick, trolls were not a particularly patient bunch.

“He’s infected!” He cried, desperate to stop the horrible sight of Bombur nearly being swallowed whole, and immediately wincing as outraged cries poured from thirteen mouths.

“They all are. They’ve got parasites, in - in their… tubes? The lot of them,” and if they didn’t shut up, they were going to have a hobbit foot in them too, “it’s a terrible business, I wouldn’t risk it, I really wouldn’t.”

He was being properly cursed now, and the dwarrow were making such a ruckus of naysaying him that he was almost tempted to let them be eaten out of spite.

Confuscate and confound these dwarrow – they were nearly as thick as the trolls!

It was with an immense look of both frustrated anger and pleading that he bent around to glare at the pile of angry morons behind him.

Kili and Oin were working themselves into a right fit, and he couldn’t even tell where Gloín’s beard ended and his face began for how red he’d turned with rage.

He searched desperately for a single shred of sense among them and once more found himself meeting the gaze of their Leader.

Thorin himself looked about ready to strangle him, but that was hardly out of the ordinary.

He desperately needed someone to play along and even if he no longer admired him, Bilbo knew that Thorin was no fool.

(Most of the time, anyway. He’d been warned rather early on that Thorin had the directional sense of a drunk oliphaunt and the unfortunate inability to read maps of any kind.

A true tragedy as Bilbo truly loved maps, himself.)

Furious blue eyes gave way to confusion as they took in his exasperated desperation.

After a moment too long of a searching gaze that burned over him like a brand, understanding came over Thorin’s grim face.

With a harsh kick to the ribs and a pointed look he had the company doing an about face, hollers of excruciating infections and parasites the size of limbs making Bilbo grimace in disgust.

(He was in awe of the efficient and unquestionable command that Thorin held over his men, despite himself.

It would be much easier for Bilbo to remain indignant about Thorin’s treatment of him if he didn’t insist on being so damned impressive at every opportunity.)

The troll flung Bombur back to the ground in disgust and Bilbo’s stomach lurched as he watched him make impact with a groan.

His worry must have shown on his face, as the smartest of the trolls – low a bar as that was – proceeded to call him out on playing them for the fools that they were.

He had only a moment to make excuses before great meaty hands were grabbing for him once again. He flinched back in fright but there was only so far that he could stumble, trapped inside a potato sack as he was. The dwarrow were shouting various threats in an attempt to distract the incoming monster and Bilbo wondered briefly at their concern before Gandalf made his appearance.

“The dawn take you all!” He boomed, staff coming down on the boulder he stood atop with a great crack and before the trolls could even scream sunlight was filling the clearing.

Bilbo stared up at the hand that was still reaching for him, cold and turned entirely to stone. He felt his heart beating wildly in his chest, breath coming quicker than he had realized, and he couldn’t help but chuckle a little hysterically in spite of it all.

Gandalf was at his side before he could gather his wits, cutting away his restraints and patting him down carefully for injuries. The old man probably should have seemed worried or maybe even frightened, but all that Bilbo could see in his eyes was amusement and a fierce sort of pride.

“Bit dramatic, wasn’t it?” He gasped out despite himself, unsure what it was that he himself was feeling at the moment.

“What is the point of a rescue at the last moment if not to make it as dramatic as possible?”

Bilbo chuckled madly at that, exhaustion creeping up on him as his hands shook in his lap.

Gandalf patted him on the back gently, smile understanding, and Bilbo was content to let his warmth sink into his soiled jacket for as long as possible

After a few moments though, all of their companions had been freed from their own bonds and were reclaiming their confiscated clothing and gear.

Bilbo waved the wizard away, knowing that he’d have to go confer with their illustrious leader about how exactly they had all been bested by Mountain Trolls in the first place.

Bilbo would maintain that it was entirely Kili and Fili’s fault to the day that he died.

(And now more than ever Bilbo felt that the day was not so very far off at all.)

Whether or not Thorin would see it that way, well, Bilbo had a fairly good idea.

He pulled himself to his feet, wobbling on shaky legs to find Bombur, unsettled by the way that the dwarf been tossed about like a doll.

Hastily averting his eyes from a rather hairy full moon, he stumbled his away around the clearing, bumping into someone in his effort to avoid mental scarring from naked dwarven hides.

Loincloths had not been stylish for anyone but trolls for a very long time, and he was going to have to have a word with someone about that.

He regretted poking fun at their long johns, he found he much preferred their excessive modesty.

“Bilbo!” Came a chirp from the chest he had bumbled into and he was hastily pulled into a very excited hug.

“Yes, last I checked,” he mumbled flatly into Kili’s undershirt, relieved that the dwarf had at least managed to pull on his trousers before beginning to accost his person.

“That was amazing!” Exclaimed Fili as he approached from their side, and wow, okay, no- he had not been as prudent as his younger brother had been.

“Fili, for the love of all things green,” he said quickly, eyes averted to Kili’s very interesting tangled hair, “put on your bloody pants before you even try to talk to me.”

Kili was blinking at him in startled surprise, a curious little smile taking him as he flicked his gaze toward his brother. Presumably, at least, because Bilbo would not be looking in that direction until Fili had his modesty in order. This would all be a little less awkward should Kili release him from his tight grasp which had kept him trapped quite a bit too snugly to the Prince’s chest for propriety’s sake.

“Why so shy, Bilbo?” Kili teased, eyebrows doing that thing again and Bilbo had the very Tookish notion of shaving them off in his sleep.

“I’ve still got on my braies, though, Bilbo,” Fili said, faux innocence a warning and Bilbo swore if Fili was walking toward them then he was going to do something very Tookish indeed.

Kili’s arms tightened very deliberately around him and his smile was so wicked that Bilbo felt absolutely no remorse for what he had to do.

“Yes, well, I shan’t be talking to anyone in less than shirtsleeves and trousers, thank you very much,” he huffed primly, large Hobbit foot coming up hard on Kili’s shin.

The dwarf howled in pain and Fili dissolved into surprised laughter as Bilbo huffed at the betrayed look on his brother’s face.

“I’d ask that you don’t try that again, Kili,” he said calmly, hands adjusting his, frankly, disgusting waistcoat, a chillingly polite smile aimed at the Prince down his nose, “for your own sake more than mine.”

Fili was gasping on his guffaws now, and Kili pouted up at him from where he clutched at his abused leg on the ground.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he turned away to once again locate Bombur or at least one of the other Ur’s.

(He was secretly glad to have found Fili and Kili as they had been on his list of check-ins anyway. He had not seen any particular harm come to them, but he had lost track of Fili in the tangle of spit roasted dwarrow.

He sighed out slowly to reign in the relief that flooded him at seeing them safe with his own two eyes.)

He was derailed from his little quest by Thorin hollering for the company to follow him off into some random direction through the woods.

It was disconcerting to see the way that the entirety of the Company swiveled about to follow him without a word of explanation.

(Never mind that he had done the exact same thing.

He was as lost out here as a babe in the woods and it was only self-preservation to stay close to the armed dwarrow obligated to keep him alive.

Unlike the others, he had his excuses for his blind faith.)

Thorin was, as always, proven true as he led them to the Troll’s treasure hoard – with the guidance of Gandalf, obviously.

(Drunken oliphaunt, indeed, he thought.)

Bilbo was quite content to wait for them to finish whatever dwarvish business they had in there as he scraped mucus off of his once bright red coat.

That and the fact that he could smell the cave from here and he had absolutely no desire to peruse it, thank you very much.

Thorin seemed just as eager to be clear of the place as he was, as they all filed out of the cave a sparse few moments from when they entered.

The King-in-exile knocked his shoulder as they passed, and Bilbo privately scoffed at the childishness of it. Outwardly he did no such thing, he would not give Thorin the satisfaction.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf stopped him as he made to follow, “take this.”

He rose a brow in question at the Wizard for a moment before his gaze alighted on the object that was being presented to him.

He felt the air stutter in his throat as he gazed upon the most beautiful blade he’d ever seen.

And while it was true that he had not seen many proper weapons, he was sure that this one was of uncommon elegance.

(He had seen and used his fair share of improvised weapons, of course. Being a gentle-hobbit meant that he had a duty to the other common hobbits in Hobbiton and when the worst had befell the Shire, his Mother had expected him to defend them by her side.

He had and he had survived the trial of it.

She had not been so lucky.

He had developed a certain loathing for weapons after that.)

“I cannot take this,” he said, distracted, and to his own surprise a fair bit panicked too, “I’ve never used a sword before.”

“And I hope you never have cause to,” Gandalf said, eyes gentle and guilty in a way that they had not been since last Bilbo had seen him at the funeral.

(Gandalf and his Mother had been dear friends, of course, and the Old Wizard was heartbroken to have arrived in Hobbiton several weeks too late to be of any help to her.

Though he had helped the Shire recover from the dread of the Fell Winter[iii] and helped them treat the ill and honor the dead in the Dearth Days to follow, he had not been long for staying after they were once more settled.

He had left soon after and had not returned until he had come to Bilbo’s door some decades later looking for a Burglar.)

“Gandalf-“ Bilbo began, choked and full of grief anew despite the many years that had passed between them both.

“It is of elvish make,” Gandalf interrupted and Bilbo was stung by the avoidance in it, the way that Gandalf always cared for him but never let himself be cared for in turn, “it will glow blue in the presence of Goblins or Orcs.

He forced it into Bilbo’s hands and before he could protest or even thank him a cry went up from the front of the party.

“Something approaches!”

Gandalf cursed something foul in some holy language and brushed passed Bilbo without another word.

Staring at the blade for a moment, remembering the cold of the snow and the howling of wolves, and the stickiness of blood on his hands, Bilbo took in a deep shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and unsheathed the sword.

It truly was something of beauty, deadly and elegant in turns and Bilbo did not know if he loved it at first sight or hated it for its duty.

He gave himself no time to dwell on the matter, spinning round to cluster with the dwarrow, blade unsheathed and raised in what he hoped was a decent defensive position.

His breath stuttered out of him in ragged puffs and his heartbeat must have been deafening as Bofur’s shoulder gently nudged him further behind the wall of bodies in front of him.

All at once the tension in the air broke as a great racket crashed through the wood around them, a sled drawn by the largest rabbits that Bilbo had ever seen coming to a halt as a bedraggled old man shouted some rather concerning nonsense from atop it.

“Radagast the Brown!” Gandalf called, equal parts delighted and confused, and Bilbo remembered that Gandalf had once claimed a cousin by that name when asked about the existence of other wizards.

(Whether the Maiar[iv] could truly be said to have blood relations of any kind seemed not to be a welcome question, and indeed Bilbo was not sure that he was supposed to know what a Maiar was at all.

But Gandalf had a loose tongue when plied with liquor and Belladonna had been greatly concerned that her friend should find himself alone without her for company, immortal thing that he was. She had confided these things in her son and to this day he was not sure that he believed them.

Gandalf seemed to him far too real to be any such grand being as that.

He seemed far too close.)

“Gandalf!” Replied the man and Bilbo was rather alarmed at both the frantic tone of his voice and the tattered and unruly state of his appearance.

He had thought that Gandalf was unkempt but now looking upon his kin he could see that he was rather impeccably maintained by comparison.

By Yavanna, was that an actual bird’s nest in his hair?

“What are you doing here?” Gandalf asked, shuffling over to the other wizard and taking hold of his shoulder warmly.

“I was looking for you!” Radagast said, breathing heavily with watery eyes wide as saucers.

Bilbo felt sympathy for the old man and his state, having found himself in a similar enough one often.

“I’ve something dreadfully important to tell you, Gandalf, dreadfully!” He continued, gasps hindering his speech only mildly, as if he was used to speaking through his own panic.

“Well, what is it, my friend?” Gandalf asked, and spent the next several minutes trying to coax his old friend into coherency.

“Oh, it’s just there,” Radagast whimpered, and if he were not an ancient wizard Bilbo might have felt pity for him, “on the tip of my tongue, its – oh!”

He blinked up at Gandalf in astounded wonder and seemed to wiggle his jaw around experimentally.

“Oh, it’s not a thought at all! It’s just uh-“ He was speaking with his tongue out of his mouth like some unruly child, even as Gandalf reached to pluck something off of it, and oh good Valar, was that a bug?

He thought he heard a sound of disgust from one of the dwarrow but he couldn’t be sure which one of them it was. Regardless, he agreed full heartedly.

“It’s just an old stick insect!” Radagast exclaimed in out of place delight as Gandalf let the thing loose into his beard.

Bilbo did not know quite what to say to that. He really did not.

The old man continued to dither around as the insect circuited his facial hair before disappearing behind its matted remains.

He was sure the state of the man’s beard had shocked several of the dwarrow into horrified speechlessness.

“Here, old friend, have some Old Toby, it’ll calm you down,” Gandalf muttered, and the fact that even he seemed mildly perturbed by his kin’s antics was a disconcerting sight to behold.

He took the other wizard farther away from the company and helped him to suck in some of the Shire’s best pipe-weed as he threw both Thorin and Bilbo apologetic smiles in turns.

(Bilbo secretly delighted at the equalizing power of that; the idea that Gandalf held him in the same regard as a would-be King.

He managed to tamp down the urge to glance at Thorin smugly. He was not so imprudent as that.)

The wizards had begun to mutter amongst themselves and Thorin had commanded the Company to prepare to set out as soon as possible in the meantime.

Bilbo was surprised that Thorin was not offended by the Old Men and their secrets, but he supposed that even he was not so prideful as to think to impose upon the council of Wizards.

Bilbo, however, was not quite so wise.

It had occurred to him, during the time he had spent wandering the road with them, that the dwarrow had a peculiar failing of both eyesight and hearing, rather akin to most Men.

(Though not all. Bilbo could name a fair few Dunédain possessed of senses that were far better than his, perhaps even approaching the sharpness of the elves.

Their Captain[v] being an exceptional tracker even among the Rangers, in the few moments that Bilbo had spent with the man in those dark days.)

So, he felt that it was his duty as the Company’s Burglar to carry out all of the necessary sneaky functions that the Dwarrow were ill-equipped to fulfill.

Whether this be thieving of goods or information, well, it was all one and the same.

In light of this, he felt justified to drop some eves, as it were.

“That blade is not of this world, Gandalf,” whispered Radagast, shaken, and to Bilbo’s growing horror, frightened.

He struggled to keep his face neutral as he pretended to struggle with fastening the belt of his new sword’s sheath.

Whatever would frighten a wizard was a terrible thing indeed.

“Where is this Necromancer said to live?” Gandalf said after a moment, grave and deadly as Bilbo had ever heard him.

“Dol Guldur,” Radagast answered, as if the words themselves were foul.

Gandalf inhaled sharply at this and Bilbo could hear the fluttering of heavy fabric.

“This cannot be,” he said, voice hard even as Bilbo could hear the underlying uncertainty there, “the old fortress is abandoned.”

“No, Gandalf,” Radagast answered, grave and unbearably afraid, “’tis not.”

Bilbo could listen no longer as the dwarrow around were, as ever, unbearably loud in their movements and had begun to drown out the wizards’ fervent whispers.

Even as Bofur approached him to make sure he too was prepared to move; Bilbo could hardly tear his thoughts away from the Old Men.

A Necromancer?

Certainly not.

Such foul magic as that had not walked these lands since- well, since the reign of the Witch King[vi].

Surely not.

Bilbo felt what light of life he carried in his heart flutter in terror at the very thought.

His people had nearly perished in their entirety during that monster’s reign.

Beholden as he was to the darker powers, and naturally loath to suffer the existence as such creatures of life and growth as them.

There was much speculation that it was The Witch King’s persecution that had driven Hobbit kind from the gentle Vales of the River Anduin and eventually to cross the Misty Mountains.

(Not open speculation of course, Hobbit’s spoke not of ill things lest they be summoned by their very mention.)

It was said that it was he who had condemned them to the Wandering Days before they had settled at long last in the lands of the Shire, blessed by the Mother and bequeathed to them by mercy of the King.

(There had been so few of them left then. He must have thought them too pitiful to survive that first Winter.)

The three houses had dissolved all customs that separated them in order to preserve their race. These days it mattered very little whether one was Fallowhide, Harfoot, or Stoor[vii] born.

Though he and most other Hobbits of standing were Fallowhidish, there was little reason to that other than their natural willingness to put themselves into more uncomfortable positions than most.

(A trait that had mutated horrendously in the blood of the Took Clan.

The Old Blood was most potent in them and the memory of fighting for survival was known to make some of them queer and restless.)

Regardless, if a Necromancer once more walked Arda, the implications were grave indeed.

He forced himself to breathe deeply and think rationally.

One rouge conjurer claiming to be a Necromancer hardly meant the return of Angmar.

In all likelihood it was some irreverent fool seeking to invoke the terror of a bygone age for clout.

Gandalf would sort them out and nothing at all would come of it.

(Oh, but that blade. That awful blade that Bilbo knew without ever seeing was black and cursed. He could feel the chill it brought with it, the promise of evil and the absence of life.)

“Bilbo!” Came a concerned shout as a rough hand shook his shoulder.

Blinking away his thoughts, he met the worried gaze of Bofur, worn hands gentling where they held him as their gazes met.

“I’ve been callin’ ya for a while, now,” he said, earth brown eyes darting over Bilbo’s face warily, “are ya alright, lad?”

His shout had drawn the gazes of the others and, unbidden, Bilbo sought out Thorin’s.

He needed to warn him, to let him know what was happening, why the wizards were afraid, why _he_ was afraid-

A howl broke the silence as he went to open his mouth.

He immediately snapped it shut, memories of cold, blood-soaked nights bubbling to the surface, as his ancestral terror hurried his already quick flowing blood.

(This would teach him the dangers of eavesdropping on Wizards.

There were things that he was better off not knowing.)

“Is that a wolf?” He asked, quiet and dull, as if by the will of someone other than him.

(‘Yes, love, those are wolves. I know that you’re afraid and that’s alright but the Gamgees are afraid too, Bilbo, and we can’t leave them down there alone with those beasts, you understand?’)

“No,” replied Bofur, hand slipping from Bilbo listlessly, as he brought his mattock across his chest in what must have been fear, “that was no wolf.”

A growl rumbled from above them and they all spun around to face the great terrible thing prowling there.

“Kili!” Shouted Thorin, deep and powerful and oh, the drums were not meant for festivals after all, they were made to be war drums, weren’t they?

Kili obeyed with that immediate surety that Bilbo had so railed against before, spinning down on one knee and taking aim at the beast’s massive head.

Now he understood why none of the dwarrow took a moment to question Thorin.

They would not survive the hesitation, if they had.

The beast let out a furious growl and a whimper as an arrow met its thick hide and it lost footing, tumbling down to their level.

Dwalin and Thorin let out a fierce cry each as they made quick work of smashing in the rotting things hideous skull.

No, that was no wolf, he thought sickly, wolves do not rot as they walk, and they are not so large and matted and foul as that.

Whatever fell beast this was, it was made of far worse stuff than his waking nightmares ever were.

“A Warg scout,” Thorin growled down at the corpse, his face a fierce painting of resigned fury, “an Orc Pack will not be far behind.”

“Orc Pack?” Bilbo cried, a tad hysterically, but to be fair he was only just learning that there were new heights to terror than he had reached.

(Wouldn’t Mother be proud?

Look Mother, have you ever seen a Warg dead at your feet?

Have you ever been hunted by Orcs?)

He was going to throw up.

“We need to move,” Thorin growled, eyes moving slowly from the Warg to Bilbo before they hardened and he turned to address the company at large, “We need to move _now_!”

Dwarrow burst into action all around him, and he was lost in the rush of it until Gandalf’s large hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Orcs this far south?” He murmured to himself, and his gaze met Bilbo’s and he knew that he knew, about the blade and the Necromancer and the terrible secret of Dol Guldur -

“We must make for the fields to the east,” he said, tearing his gaze away and shouting to Thorin, and the air suddenly rushing back into Bilbo’s lungs made him dizzy, “with haste!”

“Wait,” Radagast cried, stumbling over to clutch to his kinsman’s robes, “I’ll draw them away! Give you a chance to escape.”

Bilbo had not expected the nervous old man to show such courage, but here, declaring his willingness to face down an Orcish hunting party for a pack of strangers, he hardly seemed afraid at all.

“Nonsense,” snapped Gandalf, “those are Gundabad Wargs, they will outrun you.”

“And these are Rhosgobel Rabbits,” he countered, fiercely prideful of the fact, danger glinting in his suddenly keen eyes, “I’d like to see them try.”

They stared at each other for a moment and Bilbo thought he might have imagined the flicker of fear in Gandalf’s eyes as he nodded at his ‘cousin’.

Radagast grinned something fierce and moved with surprising spryness to mount his sled.

He took off with a yell, thundering through the underbrush and whooping like a Took lad being chased by an incensed Shire Sheriff.

Gandalf watched him go for a moment before he turned and manhandled Bilbo toward the center of the gathered dwarrow.

“Everyone, stay close together,” he advised, meeting each of their gazes in turn, before he let his eyes linger on Thorin at last, “and follow me.”

Thorin nodded at him, grip shifting only slightly on his sword as he did.

Shouting came clearly to them on the wind and soon hunting horns followed.

“Move!” Gandalf cried and the ran for the plains past the forest’s cover.

Scrambling from boulder to boulder, they struggled to keep sight of Radagast and his pursuers. The wizard was indeed outrunning them, but it seemed he wasn’t as good a distraction as he had thought. Instead of leading them clear from the Company’s path, he led the screaming Orcs in circles about the grasslands.

“Move!” Thorin growled and he practically ripped Bilbo’s shoulder from its socket as he all but threw him toward the next rock in their path.

Stumbling at the pain of it, he moved, gasping for breath and idly wondering if he’d ever run so much in all of his life.

They continued this way for what seemed to be hours and Bilbo was certain that the burning in his chest was going to kill him.

They moved from rock to rock, form crevice to overhang and back again, and Bilbo did not know where they were going but he did know that the Orcs were coming, and they were running out of time.

“Ori, no!” Thorin barked, reaching out to pull the young dwarf back by the straps of his pack just before a group of snarling, howling, rotting things ran past them.

He threw Ori behind him without looking and Dori and Nori both lurched forward to catch their brother. They ran hands over him frantically, silent in light of the situation, but gazes equal parts worried and fierce.

(Bilbo had the half frantic thought that Ori was going to get an earful after this, provided all parties involved survived.)

“They’re closing in,” growled Dwalin, vice grip shifting on his battle axes as he looked with meaning to Thorin.

Thorin met his gaze evenly and nodded in a small jerk of his head.

Bilbo did not know what that meant but he did not like it.

(Because he did, in part, recognize that look, Belladonna having given it to him as she ran out from cover to take on a White Wolf alone.)

“Move!” He yelled again, forcing all of them out into the open before he brought up the rear, nearly picking Bilbo up and carrying him forward as he slowed with fatigue.

They made it to another boulder and Bilbo nearly laughed at the futility of it.

Would they keep running in circles from boulder to boulder until the Orcs eventually caught their scent?

It seemed so, as not a moment later they heard the snuffle of a hunting Warg above their hiding place.

In terror, he looked up to Thorin who stood next to him, barrel chest heaving in exertion but face carefully calm.

He met Bilbo’s gaze only briefly before he turned to Kili down the line.

Kili in turn looked equal parts nervous and determined.

Thorin gave what might have tried to be an encouraging smile as he nodded at his nephew.

With a steadying breath, the youngest prince set his shoulders and nocked his arrow.

He looked at Bilbo briefly and the terror that clutched at his heart redoubled its efforts to choke him to death.

Kili breathed out slowly, bumped shoulders with his brother and took three quick steps out into the open.

(No, no, no, no no nononononnono-)

He swiveled around, just as he had earlier in the forest, and let loose his arrow.

Bilbo did not need to see to know that it had hit its mark. The foul thing howled in pain and Kili grimaced as he quickly let loose two more arrows, bringing the Warg and its rider down on their heads.

The Orc rolled off of its back and Bilbo nearly puked at the sight of it.

It was grey and black and pale all at the same time, flesh torn and bleeding and rotting even as it hissed at them in hatred. Its nose was half gone and festering and its eyes glassy and sharp. Metal protruded from it in a way that must have been excruciating but that did little to hinder it, even dug into its flesh deep as it was. It moved in a vaguely reptilian way even as it made to grab at the hunting horn on its belt.

(And he did not think about what leather that belt was made of or the suspiciously finger shaped baubles that hung from it.)

The dwarrow closed in on it, knocking the horn from its hand, and setting to the task of putting the festering thing down.

(Bilbo did not look to see who had done the deed, did not think that he could stomach the creature alive, much less dying and screaming.)

And it was screaming, and even Bilbo knew that was not good at all.

Thorin yelled something that Bilbo did not catch even as the others started moving.

Once more, Thorin and Bilbo brought up the rear and he suppressed ill-timed amusement at the realization that even Bombur had outrun him.

(He would not have had the breath to laugh anyway.)

“Where are you leading us?” Thorin bellowed behind him and it was only then that Bilbo realized that Gandalf was in the lead.

For his part the Wizard only cast them a warning look, as if Thorin should have already known the answer to that question.

Judging from the growl that Bilbo heard, he did.

It was not long before Bilbo caught glimpses of fur and festering flesh in the corner of his vision. Howls and growling filled the air and all that Bilbo could hear was his own breathing and the thundering of his overworked heart.

(Again. All of this was happening again, but it was different now.

It was all the same thing except it was not Hamfast Gamgee and his intended but Kili and Fili running ahead of him and Thorin pushing him forward where he was sure Belladonna should have been.)

They were running and running, and someone shouted something that sounded like the scraping of boulders and then they had suddenly stopped.

Bilbo did not have time to catch his breath.

He raised his sword shakily, chest heaving, as he flicked his gaze anxiously between the ten or more mounted orcs that surrounded them.

Thorin stood before him, back straight and shoulders broad, and Bilbo felt the air he could not catch escape him entirely.

(He remembered Balin’s story that night, days past.

He remembered about the battle at Moria, he remembered the slaying of their King.

He remembered Thorin and his shield of oak and he ached at seeing that myth come to life here in front of him.

He was humbled by the honor of it and torn apart by the grief that he had to see it at all.)

Thorin raised Deathless- no, that was not his favored sword, that was something elegant and deadly and glowing blue like the death that Bilbo carried in his own trembling hands.

Thorin’s hands did not shake.

He raised his elvish blade, and he looked as though it would be no feat at all to fell every enemy that stood before him.

(Bilbo wished that he could see his face, he wanted that so terribly now that he could hardly stand it.)

“Where is the Wizard?” Came a voice, angry and deep, and it was probably Dwalin but Bilbo did not look to see.

“He has abandoned us.” Thorin said, certain and accusing even as he condemned them all to death.

(This was not true, Bilbo knew that, knew that Gandalf would not abandon them- would not abandon him.

But then, he had been too late to save Belladonna and he could do nothing for the grief that took Bungo soon after and it would be fitting that he do nothing to save their son either.

The grief would tear at him, but the Baggins’ were only a moment in the many ages he had to live, and he would forget them in the flow of time.)

“Over here, you fools!” Gandalf shouted and Bilbo gasped out a choked sound at his voice, tearing his eyes away from Thorin at last to find his oldest friend.

He stood squeezed into a crevice beneath a rock, gesturing wildly for them to follow.

“Go!” Bellowed Thorin and of course the dwarrow moved before he had even finished speaking.

“Kili, kill it!” He ordered, as Orcs came up over the slight hill to chase their retreating backs.

Kili hunkered down and took shot after shot at the approaching beasts, Fili beating down every one of them that got to close.

Bilbo had not known that Kili could ever look so serious, so focused. He had not known that Fili had possessed that same look of cold rage that his uncle wore often. He had not known that the two sweet Princes could deal such death and keep themselves from growing sick at it.

(Then again, thirty years ago he had not known that he could do such a thing either.

Unlike them, he had not even been of age[viii] when he had first had to take a life for defense of family.

But, he mused absently, even as he ran for Gandalf, this was not their first kill, either.)

Gandalf was waiting for him at the bottom of the cave’s steep drop and his hands were on Bilbo before he had regained his footing.

“I’m alright,” He gasped out, and he couldn’t be sure that Gandalf could even understand him through his wheezing.

The Wizard seemed to do so though as he just nodded and patted Bilbo on the back before moving to count out their dwarrow.

Thorin slid down the cave after his nephews, whirling around to face the entrance as soon as his feet touched the cave floor.

Horns blew from the surface, but they did not sound as Orc horns did.

An arrow flew past the cave entrance and an Orc rolled into the opening.

Leaping to skewer the creature they all were surprised to find it already dead.

Thorin rolled it over to discover that it had been an arrow that felled the beast.

With a growl, he wrenched it out of the corpse, and Bilbo had to close his eyes at the wet squelch of it.

“Elves,” Thorin snarled, throwing the arrow away as if it were poisoned and not one of the most elegant weapons Bilbo had ever seen.

(Too many, he had seen too many, and they were too elegant for the wicked work that they would do.)

“I cannot see where the path leads,” Dwalin said, searching gaze counting heads as though he could not trust Gandalf to do it right, before he stopped on Thorin, “do we follow?”

“Of course we do!” Bofur answered, shuffling past the warrior eagerly, “Come on!”

Dwalin kept his gaze on Thorin until the dwarf nodded in reluctant permission.

With a huff the tattooed dwarf turned on his heel and followed after the others, hollering at them to let him take the lead lest they step into an Orc nest unprepared. Bilbo stood close to Thorin as the others picked each other up, family leaning on each other gratefully.

(Bilbo ached at the sight.)

He sighed heavily before he looked up to say something wry but was pulled up short when he found Thorin’s gaze already on him. Realizing himself and what he was doing, standing by Thorin’s side as if they were equals, about to joke with him as if they were friends, he stepped away quickly, searching for Gandalf without a thought as to why.

(Gandalf was his friend, and he was safe and comforting and he appreciated Bilbo and his wit even if he was a higher being that had no reason to waste his time on a simple Hobbit.)

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said, stopping him short, “you best hurry on ahead.”

Turning back to him, Bilbo tried to gauge whether this was an order or a piece of well-meaning advice. The answer would decide whether or not this conversation would be another in their string of arguments and insults. The way that Thorin relaxed his shoulders slightly, deliberately, in an attempt not to intimidate Bilbo took the choice from him, even if the dwarf’s eyes had not softened from their battle glint. It was an olive branch in their ongoing stalemate of harsh words and ill deeds, Bilbo knew, and one he had been longing for since the whole thing went wrong in the first place.

(Though he had tried, Thorin was just too good not to admire, temper and stubbornness and sense of direction and all.)

“Yes,” he said, and good green goddess, he sounded like a weepy tween, sighing like that, “alright.”

He looked over Thorin for a moment longer, not sure what it was that he was looking for before he nodded and moved to follow the rest of the Company. Moments later he heard the Princes bickering softly behind him and the heavy thump of an extra pair of dwarvish boots behind them.

(He had been doing his own head count, redundant as it was. He could not breath freely if he did not see each of them with his own eyes, even if not all of them were his friends.

He knew that.

He knew that not all of them were his friends, hardly even his companions, but they were _his_.

Somehow, they were, and he was terrified of losing any more of his people.)

Gandalf had thankfully ended up walking next to him as they shuffled along the ravine, the dwarrow running their hands along the wall every now and then as if it would help them know where they were going.

(He distracted himself from his still thundering heart by watching their thick fingers trail along the stone.)

“Stone Sight,” Gandalf whispered, bending down to Bilbo’s ear and nearly bent in half to manage the feat, “like your Green Touch, it is an inborn trait of theirs, gifted to them by Aulë.”

“Oh,” he murmured in reply, nervous at the whispering, nearly certain this was another Dwarrow secret he was not supposed to know, “and this helps them find their way?”

Curse his curiosity, he could only hope that the others did not hear them.

(The dwarrow had such terrible hearing he wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t.)

“Hmm,” Gandalf thought his answer over, great white beard brushing against Bilbo’s ear uncomfortably, “not always. It takes training to use it to any great effect – like your own Magic – but yes it can. For those who do not manage such a mastery it is a simple comfort to them to hear the stone’s voice.”

Bilbo hummed noncommittally, running his own hands reverently along the stone. He heard nothing, felt only the barely-there twitch of the few cave dwelling plants and lichen that grew here.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he answered, unnecessary as it was.

They both knew that he would take Gandalf’s word for nearly everything. Gandalf straightened beside him, smile fond and knowing as he smiled at Bilbo.

“Try again,” he encouraged, and Bilbo was confused, and not a little annoyed at the tone of order in his voice, but complied, nonetheless.

He brought his hand to the sheer stone once more, eyes closing even as he moved, assured in Gandalf’s ability to steer him away from harm.

He breathed slowly and listened.

He heard nothing but his own breathing. The rustling of Gandalf’s robes, the clanking of dwarvish steel toed boots, and weapons. Armor and scraping leather and the swish of many swaying braids and the clicking of the beads therein. He heard breathing and soft dwarven grumbling and the unbearable noise of them that he had come to expect.

He heard no voices beyond those of his Company.

But he did feel something that he had not before, faint and distant but fierce and beautiful.

He gasped at the sensation, eyes turning up to Gandalf in delighted wonder at the realization.

“A forest!” He said, and he meant it to be a question, but he was certain. He knew with utter certainty that their destination was wooded and alive and glorious. Gandalf did nothing but laugh quietly at his delight and Bilbo only grinned brighter for it.

(If his heart rate had slowed and the growl of great hounds faded from his ears, well, he supposed that Wizards were wise in more way than one.)

Up ahead, the dwarrow continued their trek. Some with furrowed brows, that only furrowed more the closer that they got to the growth that Bilbo craved. When they finally grew near to the opening of the ravine, bright shafts of light and a faint breeze welcoming them, he thought that he knew why.

“It smells like Elves!” He exclaimed, delighted even as the dwarrow around him growled at him in annoyance. He did not know why they loathed elves so, but he had always been fascinated by the fair race.

(The Fallowhide always had been, he reminded himself distantly.)

As they stepped out of the ravine and found themselves on a ledge overlooking the Fair Valley there could be no mistake.

“Welcome,” Gandalf said, as the last of them shuffled to a halt on the ledge, “to the Last Homely House East of the Sea, Imladris.”

The dwarrow, even as rude and hateful as they were of elves, were struck dumb by the sight of the valley.

Bilbo himself could hardly breath for the beauty of it.

Gandalf, very pleased with their reactions carried on.

“In the common tongue it is known as-“

“Rivendell.” Bilbo breathed, awe coloring his voice with all the reverence that a Hobbit could muster.

Gandalf chuckled as the plants around their ledge jumped to an unseasonal full blossom.

“You led us here on purpose, Wizard,” Thorin spit, turning on the Old Man who had been rather content to watch his little friend marvel at the wonder of elven lands, “into the arms of our enemy.”

Gandalf was no longer smiling, and Bilbo did not like the disappointed look that he was sending Thorin.

“Your ‘enemy’,” he scoffed, annoyance biting in his tone, “the only ill-will that you will find in this Valley is that which you bring yourself!”

Thorin looked about to say something uncharitable about elves or Gandalf or both before he drew back and took a deep breath.

“You cannot think that they will approve of our quest,” he said instead, tone careful and restrained as he could make it.

“Of course not!” Gandalf said, as if the very notion was ridiculous and he was quite tired of this particular ridiculous Dwarf, “But we have a map that we cannot read and here lies the home of one on middle-earth who can read it.”

He brushed past Thorin briskly, calling behind him.

“We have little choice, at all, Thorin!” He stopped only briefly to shout before he carried on, “This will require no small amount of tact and a fair bit of politeness- I suggest that you leave the talking to me.”

Thorin growled at the Wizards back, before his gaze flickered to Bilbo’s, still blazing blue in anger.

“I suppose you knew of this?” He accused, voice low and every bit the war drums that Bilbo had thought them to be.

“What?” He asked, dry and annoyed. He was quite tired from the day and from petulant Dwarf-Lords and their indecisiveness on whether they wanted to fight with him or not.

(He had rather hoped that Thorin was learning to tolerate him at the very least.)

Thorin drew himself up to his full height, an annoying trick that made Bilbo feel smaller by comparison than he knew he was.

“As pleased as you seem to be by coming upon these Elves,” he sneered, eyes raking over Bilbo in an unnerving way that made him have the absurd notion that he ought to be ashamed of his delight, “one would think you had been hoping for this outcome.”

Bilbo stared at him dryly for a moment, waiting to see if Thorin was capable of even hearing the nonsense that he was spouting.

(He had thought that they all were going to die naught an hour ago. He would have been pleased to have come upon a sturdy looking pile of logs for shelter.)

As a moment passed and Thorin kept up his regal glare, the dwarrow behind anxiously glanced back at the rapidly disappearing figure of their Wizard.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said with a sigh, straightening his tragically ruined waistcoat, “as absolutely ridiculous as you’re being, I’m quite glad to have some pleasant company for a change.”

He walked past Thorin, properly smiling at the awe struck dwarrow he passed as he followed Gandalf down to Rivendell proper.

(He did not purposely check Thorin’s shoulder as he passed. Certainly not, that would have been childish, and entirely to satisfying to abide.)

* * *

[i] Blue Tulips: loyalty and trust

[ii] Chrysanthemum: non-romantic affection

[iii] In the year T.A. 2911, one of the harshest winters in Middle-earth's history descended, the Fell Winter. The ice and snow of the north came as far south as the Shire. With them came the White Wolves, invading and roaming the Shire-lands. Bilbo would have been 21 years old at the start of it.

[iv] The Maiar are lesser dieties that serve the Valar and helped them make the world. In the third-age (or perhaps the second, depending on what you reference), where we find ourselves, five of them had been sent to help Men and Elves fight against Sauron. Except naturally, they’re little shits who don’t do their jobs. The Blue Wizards ran off to dick around in the South-East, ostensibly to make sure the enemy didn’t gain a foot hold there, and Radagast decide that he did not like these ‘people’ so much, after all, and retired to the woods. The only two actually known to be doing their jobs were Saruman and Gandalf, and, well we all know how Saruman ended up.

[v]I’ve always interpreted the fact that Bilbo knew who Aragorn was in the books to mean that they’d met before. While it is probable that they met in Rivendell it makes it more interesting that Bilbo knew of him after he met his father when the Rangers came down from the North to aid the people in the Fell Winter.

[vi] While being small, self-contained, and unwilling to venture far from home would serve Hobbits well when it came to going unnoticed as they had, it would do little to deter the interest of the worst sorcerer to ever live. Especially if they were capable of benevolent magic as I have made them out to be. Canonically Hobbits had crossed over the misty mountains to settle in the Shire and it’s generally accepted that no one knows why that happened. Well, in the Second age we know that the Witch Kingdom of Angmar was founded along the Misty Mountains. So, it seems logical to me that the two events are connected.

[vii] Harfoot Hobbits, of which the Gamgee family are, were the first to enter Eriador and the most common variety, they are the shortest of all Hobbit lines. Stoor Hobbits were the last to arrive and are the second most common. They are stockier than the other two variety of Hobbits and have been known on occasion to grow beards. They are water-loving folk and it is fair to assume that Sméagol was of this kind. Followhide Hobbits are the least common and arrived second to the Shire. They are generally fair-haired and tall for hobbits. They had a fondness for forests and Elves and were known to be the more adventurous of the three.

[viii] Bilbo is 55 years old here and would have been 21 at the start of the Fell Winter. Hobbits come of age on their 33rd birthday. Frodo will not be born for another 23 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Khuzdul translations will be provided with credit due to The Dwarrow Scholar and his amazing library of resources and lessons on the language.  
I encourage you too look at his work because it is one of the most impressive and dedicated accomplishments that I have ever seen any fan make.  
I only hope that he can forgive me for my butchering and heinous shmooping of such a credit to his name.  
https://www.dwarrowscholar.com/
> 
> Also I invented Aunt Periwinkle, because I rather felt that no one would notice and it wouldn't effect anything but my own idea of the Shire. Also, I felt that there ought to be a precedent for adoption among Hobbits, certainly among such a wealthy family as the Tooks.


	5. A Short Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which very little rest is actually had.

In his century and some odd years of life, Thorin had suffered through his fair share of humiliating situations. Being an exile Prince all but guaranteed that. Being heir to a failing line of Mad Kings tended to exacerbate the situation.

Having to lead his people in place of his Father, who had seen fit to wander the land on a grief induced fool’s errand, could be counted as one of these. Being forced to sell his skills to ignoble Men – as both mercenary and smith – certainly qualified. So too, did being denied the support of the other royal Houses on this quest. But it was not till he lay here, bound in burlap and bested by Trolls, that he truly felt that he had faced his greatest humiliation.

He should have let the Halfling suffer whatever fate the Trolls had in mind for him but when he had looked at him with nothing but fear and pleading in his eyes, well.

Thorin was not so cruel as that.

Still, if he was ever to get out of this ridiculous situation, he was going to have to make sure that word of it never got out. Of all the unworthy foes to be bested by it had to be three halfwit trolls. Mahal save him.

It was as he was lamenting this sorry state of the Heirs of Durin that the Halfling struggled to his bound feet.

“Wait!” He cried, in a voice that was appropriately frightened for once, “You’re making a horrible mistake!”

“Ya can’t reason with ‘em!” Dwalin shouted back at him, spinning slowly as he thrashed around on the spit that he had been tied to, “They’re half-wits!”

“Well, what does that make us, then?” Cried Bofur, strapped to Dwalin’s back, annoyed and resigned in equal measure.

Throin couldn’t help but agree, even as he worked to loosen the ropes binding the sack around his chest.

“No, really, you are making an awful mistake!” The Hobbit continued, calmer and intent on their captors rather than the bickering of their comrades.

“Oh, an’ what mistake ‘ould that be?” Asked one of the trolls, sneering as he bent down far too close to the little man for Thorin’s comfort.

“Well,” The Hobbit replied, leaning away from the troll – not far enough – with his brow furrowed in thought, “you’re cooking them wrong!”

Thorin could not believe what he was hearing.

The damn halfling, instead of being helpful, was giving the monsters cooking tips.

Of all the uptight fussy creatures in this world, only he would take issue with the manner of being cooked rather than the actual fact of being cooked at all.

“Well, you’ve got to skin them, of course!” He said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Thorin really ought to have let the trolls have their way with him. What on middle-earth had he been thinking? No amount of pleading despair was worth the lives of him and his, no matter the pitiful state of the victim.

The shouting coming from the rest of the Company was just as outraged and their threats equally as justified. Thorin himself itched to reach out and wring the little creature’s neck. He swore to Mahal that he’d never take the advice of mad Wizards again in his life.

The trolls, for their part, seemed rather indifferent to the culinary arts and had decided to forgo skinning anyone at all and settled on simply eating poor old Bombur alive.

Thorin struggled harshly against his bindings, fighting with all the strength that he had to get to the Chef even as he knew it to be a futile struggle. As the troll lifted Bombur up into the air and dangled him over its mouth, he cursed something foul at his own weakness.

Here he was, their leader, leading them into death before they’d even made it out of Eriador.

“Wait, no, stop!” The Halfling was yelling, higher and easily discernable over the deep rumbling of the incensed dwarrow, “He’s infected!”

The troll stopped abruptly, reeling back in disgust as one of his brothers wheeled around to face the Hobbit.

“’e’s wot?” The thing asked, threatening and looming ever closer to the bound creature, now more defenseless than ever he had been before.

“He’s - he’s infected,” the Halfling repeated himself, frantic green eyes flickering from the troll in front of him to the dwarf that was still being held aloft, “They all are. They’ve got parasites, in - in their… tubes? The lot of them. It’s a terrible business, I wouldn’t risk it, I really wouldn’t.”

The troll holding Bombur shrieked in disgust and, trying to create as much distance from him as possible, flung him to the ground. Thorin flinched in sympathy as Bombur made impact with the dirt even as he heard a horrified gasp escape the Hobbit. The other dwarrow were enraged by the insult and were working up a sweat cursing the smaller creature to hell and back. Thorin himself was right behind them, concern for Bombur assuaged by the fact that he was still groaning and rolling around.

If he was well enough to complain that meant that he was well enough to survive.

The Hobbit on the other hand was testing his luck with Trolls and Dwarrow both.

If he thought that he could get away with insulting them as he had, then he had another thing coming. Thorin would have to be on his deathbed before he would let some nobody halfling that no one had ever heard of insinuate that he and his were parasite riddled.

He’d have said as much, but the Hobbit was not looking at him.

This was a perfectly understandable failing given the situation at hand but Thorin had spent days on end being ignored by this creature and ignoring him in turn. He had had quite enough.

The halfling turned to face him at last, face the picture of pleading exasperation, and Thorin’s outrage was overtaken by the desperation layered beneath the small man’s annoyance. The Hobbit was trying to communicate something, something of vital importance that Thorin just could not read from him.

Though he knew not what, he knew that the Hobbit was up to something. He had hired him precisely because of his sharp wit and here he was forgetting all about it.

He could have kicked himself for his foolishness.

Though Thorin could see no way out of this, it seemed that the Hobbit had a plan. What feigning a parasitic infection would do to aid them, he did not know, but it was better than sitting here and doing nothing at all. Their Burglar had proven to be keen of both mind and foresight and perhaps he would prove himself to be worth his keep after all.

With a kick to Kíli’s back and a slow nod toward the Hobbit, both his nephew and Dori seemed to understand the Hobbit’s plan. Or at the least, he supposed, they understood that he wanted them to go along with the claims of infection. Though they could have been slightly less obvious about their change of opinion it would serve them well enough to clue the others into the plan.

Soon enough the entire Company was bellowing laments of their deathly parasites and assorted fabricated ills. Thorin felt an inappropriate surge of amusement at the increasing ridiculousness of their claims and the Hobbit’s obvious disgust.

A rather short-lived burst of amusement, as most proved to be in his case.

“You’re takin’ us for fools!” Bellowed the least dim of the trolls, and Thorin lurched forward in his sack as it made to grab at the Hobbit.

Small frightened creature that he was, the Burglar gasped in terror and scrambled back as far as he could in his burlap prison. It was not far at all and Thorin felt a yell rise in his throat as he tripped backward futilely.

“May the dawn take you all!” Came a voice, blessed and just in time, and Thorin knew it was Tharkûn without ever taking his eyes off of the shaking halfling.

The great hand that had been reaching for the halfling froze and crackled as it transmuted into stone inches from the Burglar’s wide-eyed face.

Thorin had not realized the absence of air in his chest until he was forced to take in a gasping breath in his sudden relief.

He had not realized that he had felt, among the anger and the outrage of losing their only recently gained Burglar, a gripping terror that he had long associated with dragon fire and glazed over eyes of Durin Blue.

He sat in his bindings, mute and dazed as he watched the Hobbit shake, jewel-bright eyes dull with terror and sun kissed skin a sickening shade of pale.

Gentle folk were not made for the wild.

They were not made for war or dragons or Trollshaws spread too deep into the south for comfort.

The Hobbit should not have come, he should not be here, talking his way out of being eaten alive. He should not be sat upon forest floor, dull and losing his luster and filthy where naught a month past he had been the single primmest and most comfortable creature that Thorin had ever seen.

He should not be here – Thorin should not have brought him here.

The Wizard was upon the Hobbit in a moment and Thorin was relieved that someone with sense would tell him to go back home before it was too late.

But the Old Man did no such thing.

He smiled at the Halfling and laid reassuring hands upon him and the Hobbit tore away from his horror so quickly that it must have hurt. He said something, though what it was Thorin could not catch and Gandalf laughed heartily as he made his reply.

Indeed, he was more Gandalf than Tharkûn when by the Hobbit’s side. Whatever fierceness he had possessed as he split that stone was laid aside as he ran his hands over a trembling back.

And yet he had led him into this peril and would lead him into worse yet before this journey’s end.

Thorin could not understand it.

Thorin himself had led those he loved into peril, had no choice but to do so, but never once had he done so without guilt. Never once had he done so without preparing them for the dangers of the world to the best of his ability.

Gandalf showed no remorse, no question in his bringing this Hobbit along. He had obviously not warned him of their arrival in his home that night, nor of the services which they would request of him. He had not warned him of peril, or dragons, or even the weather which would forsake him long before he ever made it to Wilderland.

He had not told him, he had not prepared him, and these actions spoke of such blatant disregard for his safety that Thorin could not comprehend how he looked upon him with a gaze that felt far too close to damamargân_**[i]**_ for comfort.

They spoke a few moments more, Gandalf loosening the Halfling’s bindings and it was only then that Thorin realized that Kíli was attending to his own.

Free and assured by his nephews’ whooping that they were whole and hale, he made to lay eyes once more upon the Hobbit, just to be certain that he was safe. But the Wizard was approaching him, stern and intent on discussion and Thorin reminded himself that he had no such luxuries.

“Well,” Tharkûn began, and he was Tharkûn once more because it was he who counseled Kings, even as it was Gandalf who doted upon gentle-hobbits, “you all seem to be unharmed.”

“Yes,” Thorin said, cold and angry at the Wizard who could not seem to realize his own implicit betrayal, “no thanks to your Burglar.”

And it had been the Hobbit’s fault, he recalled, that they had fallen into this trap in the first place and been captured in the second.

“He at least had the nous to stall for time,” Ah, and there was Gandalf, fierce and defensive as proper kin, “none of the rest of you thought of that.”

Thorin had no response for that beyond the fact that at the least the Hobbit should have done that much as his wit was the only useful thing about him. He did not think that the Old Man would like this answer though as he seemed intent on playing the doting Grandfather for now.

It was a disquieting thing that Thorin could not help but to wonder how long it would last.

“Now, pray tell,” started Gandalf, teasing and admonishing all in one breath, as if Thorin’s silence had been an agreement, “how the Company of Thorin Oakenshield came to be bested by Mountain Trolls?”

“Pray tell, what Mountain Trolls are doing this far south of their mountains?” He countered, years of dwarven politics – blunt and delightful as they were – preparing him to sidestep any discussion that he’d rather not have.

“I’m sure that I do not know,” Gandalf said, with a grave frown that argued otherwise, “but they could not have travelled by day for fear of the sun’s light.”

“They must have traveled underground,” Thorin agreed, the statement obvious and easy to come by to any who knew the Earth as well as he.

There had been times past where he had not seen the sun’s rays proper for nigh to a year or more. Dwarrow took no more notice of this than they did the onset of winter, for while the sun was warm and lovely it was not something that they required to live and fill their hearts.

Not the way that they needed soil and stone.

Not the way that they craved riches and skill craft.

“There must be a cave nearby,” he said, voice gone soft in anticipation, because as well as being foul and slow, Trolls were greedy thieves by nature. Troll Hoards were known to be treasure hoards if one was stolid enough to brave the putrid refuse interspersed with gold.

Thorin had braved fields of Orcish battle fouler than anything that could be produced by Trolls.

“This way,” commanded Tharkûn, stern and mighty once again, and Thorin was too excited to argue. It had been an age since he had beheld a treasury of any size that was not meant for the distribution between and benefit of his people. As trifling as this Troll Hoard would likely be, it would be the first glimpse of wealth that he would let himself enjoy without guilt for more than a century now.

“Igjijî!”[ii] He ordered, too eager to translate his thoughts and not needing to turn to know with certainty that his dwarrow would follow.

Tharkûn proved to be a reliable guide as after a few slow moments of tumbling blindly through the trees they were upon the foul stench of a Troll Home. Undeterred, he trouped on, Bofur, Nori, Gloín, Fíli, and Dwalin following as he and the wizard entered the cave. The others stayed behind to guard their backs, as only a fool would delve into unknown depths without a rear guard to warn of enemies of the same mind.

It was here among the refuse and the scant treasures that the monsters had collected that something truly beautiful caught his eye. Deep in the cave, dust encrusted, and cobweb soiled, a gleam shone faintly with the light of his torch. Approaching, he found a collection of swords. Interest peaked, he idly sorted through them, both warrior’s spirit and smith’s eye disappointed at the ill-made collection of Men’s blades.

Until, behind the ill wrought steel of Men, the same gleam that had drawn him there flickered with promise. Reaching past years of filth, he grasped hold of a sword that was set apart from its bedmates at his first touch.

It sang with the steel from which it was forged, all the voice of the earth kept vibrant through the forge, and his heart delighted at the sound of it. The hammers of Men often sought to beat the Metal’s voice into submission, to bend its soul to their will, in place of working with the metal to meet its destined shape. Few smiths among Men knew how to work with the soul of their material and as a result precious few of their weapons spoke of any strength at all.

But this blade sang of the earth, and the smith who helped forge it, and the battles in which it had served. And many battles, grand and terrible, they must have been. It was lighter than it ought to be and perfectly balanced without even being unsheathed. Something about it seemed to want him to take it.

And a small part of him feared that it was a madness to think so.

The other blade that stood beside it, equally as elegant and terrible and well forged, did not call to him as its sister did.

Tharkûn approached and he handed him the sister blade, larger but just as lovely, and made for the taller races.

“These were not made by any smith among men,” he murmured, and Thorin was gratified to hear the same reverence in the Ancient’s voice, “they must have been made by the Elves.”

And all at once his heart shuddered at the thought, at being so willingly ensnared by beauty and the magic of the Elves, and he made to throw down that terrible lovely blade.

“You could not wish for a better weapon!” Tharkûn admonished, and Thorin stopped to ponder the Old Man. Tricky and terrible as he was to his kith, he had proven to be a reliable business partner and Thorin would not throw away his words lightly. If the wizard saw no harm in the elvish blade, then Thorin would trust that no harm would come of it.

And it had been long indeed since he beheld any great craft such as this. The treasures and holy forgings of Thrór’s halls lost to dragon fire when he was far too young to have any true measure of their worth.

At a paltry twenty four years, he had been decades from coming of age, and centuries from the wisdom required of the tasks that were to be asked of him.

A Dwarven Prince born to jewel encrusted cradles; he had thought nothing of their worth beyond the pride that they brought to his house. A Prince taught to play music by the voices of harps strung with the last embers of dying starlight, he had not known the worth or the rarity of these things.

He had not known what their absence would mean.

An exiled Dwarf-lord with no Mountain-keep to call his own, he had only but the dull whispers of grief wrought steel and iron to claim.

No gold passed his hands that was not immediately spent to feed, and clothe, and house his people. No time could be found for idle tinkering, for the making of clockwork toys or the cutting of jewels for nothing but the beauty of them. No blade forged by the hands of him or his could sing the songs that had lulled him to sleep as a pebble.

Try though he might, his work crafted lovely things, fierce things, but nothing that gleamed and shone with the light of his Grandfather’s halls. Many of Thrór’s treasures had been Elven-gifts or makings of the High Men; a testament to the greatness of his rule that such craftsman would pay homage to him and his own kingdom of Craft-Guilds.

Theirs was a kingdom of skill and the beauty therein, more than it ever was a kingdom of riches.

Durin’s Folk had not known such splendor for a century or more now, and their King-in-exile longed for the return of those days with a fierceness that frightened even himself.

This blade, Elven-forged, and battle tested, was a reminder of the heart that his people had lost, the sadness and grief that was ever more forged into their work and the shining pride that he would reclaim for them yet.

“Very well,” He murmured to the Wizard, making quick work of cleaning his prize, and scouting the rest of the cave.

Lingering on had-been’s and will-be’s would not get them to Erebor.

Finding nothing else of worth, he made to leave, only to find his comrades frantically burying a small chest of riches into the ground, snickering to each other naughtily as if they were not yet of the age of forty each.

Perhaps, he thought, great riches were not necessary as long as they had enough to satiate each of these snickering, loyal, fiends.

Calling for them to finish their business, he left the cave, eager to breath untainted air once more. It would have been a relief if he had not been greeted with the sight of the Hobbit as soon as he made his escape.

The Burglar was leaned up against a stone, mulishly and futilely scraping at the filth on his once flamboyant coat. The thing had been garishly red once, ill-suited for travel and too eye catching for stealth, but now it was a muted burgundy, tarnished and filth laden. His waistcoat beneath fared little better, bright spring green now a dingy earth tone and frayed at the hem.

Thorin had the thought that the Hobbit himself would fair little better by this journey’s end.

He brushed past the spitfire thief, shoulder just briefly brushing his, and was unnerved at the disappointment that filtered through him when the Hobbit did not even glance his way.

In the beginning of their journey, though they had not often spoke, the Hobbit had at the very least acknowledged his presence, his leadership, his ability to both rule and to survive. He had caught those eyes gazing at him with no small amount of respect and trust, and it was a sobering thought to realize that it had meant anything to him at all.

Now, the Hobbit seemed intent on ignoring Thorin as much as was physically possible. It was with a sense of impending shame that he realized that this was perhaps the annoyance the Hobbit himself had felt at being discounted so out of hand.

He grit his teeth and forced himself to move on from these thoughts.

It would do little to dwell on these things; the ache of long-gone singing halls or green eyes that would no longer meet his own.

It was Balin that saved him from these thoughts, as it often was, though he wished it had been in a different manner.

“Something approaches!” He called, perched at their vanguard, ever the look-out man.

“Bekâr!”[iii] He ordered, unsheathing his elven blade without a thought and feeling a swell of reassurance at the curve of its blade.

The Company fell in behind him in a tight battle ring, weapons drawn and tensed for confrontation. He only had a moment of confusion to spare at the Hobbit having somehow acquired a blade of his own. It was not important, he reasoned quickly, how Burglar’s came upon shiny new things. Mahal knew what Nori had stuffed into his own pockets.

“It’s coming,” muttered Dwalin by his side, hands shifting on Grasper’s shaft in anticipation.

Thorin nodded in agreement, eyes scanning the trees for a moment before he spotted the telltale rustle of leaves.

“Make ready!” He ordered, and the shuffling behind him spoke of obedience.

And then their pursuer was upon them, a great racing mess of rabbit and wood and Man.

A man who it seemed, belonged to the same line of not-quite deity as Tharkûn.

“Radagast the Brown!” He hailed him, voice the same shade of warmth as when he called upon the Burglar.

The Brown Wizard was, unlike his cousin, unarguably insane.

Tharkûn, though queer and mischievous, was unpredictable in a way that spoke to his origin in planes on-high. Radagast however, was unpredictable in a way that spoke of not thought or purpose, but the rather mortal slight of the mind.

The two moved off to speak in hushed tones together and Thorin was glad to let them, unwilling to meddle any further with the affairs of Istari and suitably disturbed by that incident with the insect.

“Be ready to move,” he addressed the Company, eager to leave as soon as the Wizards were done, “gather your things.”

He made to do the same, taking inventory of his pack which Kíli had run to retrieve with a few of the others while they traversed the Troll Hoard.

He was quickly distracted.

“Bilbo?” Came a voice; Bofur’s he found as he looked over to him, and the concern there brought Thorin up short. He was stood in front of the Hobbit, face creased with worry even as he called out his name once more. Thorin did not know when they had come to be on a first name basis, and he knew it was not his business, but it irked a childish part of him despite that.

The Hobbit did not answer, face pale and eyes distant as he stared down at his large furry feet, small hands worrying over the leather of his new sheath’s belt.

“Bilbo, are you alright, lad?” Bofur tried once more, voice now genuinely worried, and still the Hobbit did not respond. His head tilted slightly to the side as if he was listening to something, and his grip upon his belt grew so tight that his knuckles lost all of their color.

Genuine fear crossed his face for a split second before it was replaced by a familiar calm that Thorin was beginning to suspect had been intentional all this time. He had been blank faced and indifferent in Thorin’s presence from that argument of theirs onward and Thorin had thought it to be polite indifference but now he was beginning to see it for secretive defense.

Still he was deathly pale, his eyes wide and frightened, and he seemed incapable of hearing his friend’s call. This was enough to stop whatever annoyance Thorin knew he would have felt otherwise.

Bofur seemed to have had enough and Thorin got to his feet even as he grabbed at the Burglar’s shoulders.

“Bilbo!” He all but shouted, shaking the smaller man with such gentle care that Thorin wondered if he was scared to break him.

At last, the Hobbit’s eyes snapped up, meeting Bofur’s with open alarm.

“I’ve been callin’ ya for a while, now,” Bofur said, searching the Hobbit for the cause of his fear, voice careful and far too caring for comfort, “are ya alright, lad?”

Verdant eyes widened in surprise, and he opened his mouth in a frightened little gasp that did not suit him, not at all. He looked around, frantically searching for something, and Thorin could only think that it was the Wizard’s comfort which he sought.

But it was upon Thorin himself that his gaze alighted.

Thorin was not a dwarf often caught off-guard, but this creature of green hills and warm homes had been driving him from frustration to surprise and back again for nigh a month on end. And as green eyes latched onto him, and hardened in determination and desperation in equal measure, it was his own fierce need to answer whatever may be asked of him that took him aback.

The Hobbit opened his mouth to say something to Thorin, something that he knew was vitally important, for the first time in days and Thorin would hear it, even if it hurt his pride to do so.

But it seemed, as it ever did, that Thrain’s Son was not to be granted his desire.

An ominous howl broke in the distance.

The enemy was upon them.

“Is that a wolf?” The Hobbit asked, voice flat in a way that Thorin ached to examine but had not the time to.

“No, that is no wolf.” Replied Bofur, wobbly and frightened, and Thorin remembered suddenly that though he had been in battle he had never before faced their race’s bane.

A growl came softly from above them, and without even thinking he ordered Kíli to loose his arrows.

There was no time for hesitation in battle, and battle indeed was upon them.

The beast fell, but it was still kicking, and he and Dwalin made quick work of ending its miserable life.

“A Warg scout,” he said, as if they did not already know, as if they had not hunted and been hunted by their kind for centuries, “an Orc pack will not be far behind.”

“Orc pack?” Squeaked the Hobbit, high and incredulous and Thorin could not help but to glance his way.

He was near shaking where he stood, fear compounded upon fear, and Thorin thought once more that this state of him must be his fault.

He felt as though he had not seen the Hobbit’s natural color this whole long night and he was quite sick of it.

Bilbo Baggins was not meant for travel, he was not meant for fighting, he was not meant for peril, and he most certainly was not meant to die in the wilds mauled by rotting Wargs.

“We need to move,” Thorin said, knowing that if he could not send this creature back home for fear of failing this quest, he would not let him die here, at least, “we need to move _now_!”

And move they did, Tharkûn in the lead, and his comrade leading away the beasts. Thorin had long learned that he was no skilled guide and that letting his pride rule him in battle would never lean in his favor.

This once, he would follow.

They made for the cover of boulders laid into the earth of large plains, a destination in mind that Thorin did not know but was certain that he would not like.

Still, beggars could not be choosers and he had been brought so low long ago.

They made from boulder to boulder, taking cover whenever the Orcs came too close, and Thorin cursed himself for believing that the crazed wizard could be trusted to be a diversion.

They ran again, and paused, and ran again, and again, and again, and the Hobbit was beginning to slow. He was slowing, and his chest was heaving for breath that wheezed through him, and Thorin knew that he would not last much longer.

All at once Ori ran past him, nervous and eager to be moving, even as the enemy rounded the cover of their hiding place.

“Ori, no!” He barked, reaching out and pulling the young dwarf back by the scruff of his neck, throwing him back to where he knew his brothers were waiting to catch him. The Ri brothers would not let their youngest out of sight for a while now, he knew, and a good thing it was.

He refused to let any member of his party fall here. Whether it be their youngest warrior or their frailest thief.

“They’re closing in,” Dwalin said, voice equal parts warning and question, because he too saw their odds; the state of their company and the ever-closing circle of the Orc’s passes. Thorin met his eyes and nodded solemnly. They may very well die here, but it would not be without a fight.

Dwalin frowned, grizzled face hard and determined as he nodded back to his King, his closest friend, his battle-brother.

Thorin could breathe a little easier knowing that if he fell it would be with this dwarf at his back.

“Move!” He ordered as soon as the path was clear, counting heads as they dashed out in front of him, and despairing as the halfling faltered. He could not afford to slow here, he would not make it, and Thorin could not allow the Orcs to take him. He ushered the smaller man onward, arm at his back gentle as he could be in a battle haze, and he had to stop himself from throwing him over his shoulder all together.

It was a near thing.

They made it to the next boulder, and he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, eyes opening once again at the shaky little laugh that the Hobbit stuttered out next to him.

What an odd creature he was, color back to his face now of all times, shining and golden and flushed in the sun even as Arda’s foulest were at their backs.

Thorin would not say that he was alright, because he was not a fool, and anyone with eyes could see that he was half mad with fright.

But he was no longer pale and unthinking and frozen.

And that helped, somehow, to calm Thorin’s own maudlin thoughts.

There was no time to being thinking of glorious battle-deaths and shield brothers entombed side by side.

They had a mountain to reclaim.

As if to cement this thought, soft sniffing sounds echoed from above their heads and all of the Company froze at once. Thorin saw as the halfling looked to him in fright, as if Thorin alone could do something for them now, and it sparked some fierce thing in him into action.

He looked to Kíli at the end of their line, mashed to the stone by his elder brother’s forearm on his chest, brindle brown eyes already watching for his every order.

He was every inch the warrior his mother was, every bit as clever as Frerin had been, and as strong willed as Thorin himself.

Vili must be proud, he thought, at least as proud as Thorin.

He nodded to him, needing no words to ask this of his nephew, and felt fierce pride even as Kíli’s resolve scared the part of him that could not divorce this Warrior from the little Dwarf Prince of years past.

Still, Kíli breathed deeply, and met his brother’s gaze.

Fíli let him go, as he ever did.

Kíli smiled tightly at the halfling, and this once Thorin was glad for whatever comfort their friendship could provide his youngest.

The Hobbit tensed bodily and inhaled as though struck when Kíli stepped out one, two, three, steps and swiveled down to one knee, arrow flying in the span of a breath just as Thorin had taught him.

The beast howled and fell, and its rider snarled from atop of it.

With a yell, Thorin and near half the company were upon it, axes and swords and mattocks, and that Durin-damned ladle, beating the thing into silence.

But it was too late, he knew, because the sounds of the other Orcs had quieted, listening, listening, narrowing in on them as a cat plays with a rodent.

He ordered them onward, and the Orcs resumed their hunt, but they had found their taste for Wizard and rabbit paled in comparison to their hunger for dwarf flesh.

He fell to the rear again, and the Hobbit was slow, so slow, and it was enough to drive Thorin half mad with the urge to just carry him like a child, but he knew that he would not like that and he could not bear to make the Hobbit mad at him again, not when he had only just begun to look at him once more-

And the Hobbit glanced at him, as if to check that he was still there, that he had not left him to his own devices, and something in Thorin’s chest snarled at the very thought.

“Where are you taking us?” He called to Tharkûn, eager to dismiss whatever feelings the Hobbit had elicited, and even more eager to be free of their pursuers.

The wizard did not answer except to cast him an annoyed gaze and Thorin knew at once that he was leading them to that valley where Elves dwelt.

Damn the wizard, he would have them outrun orcs only to fall into the arms of traitors!

They ran as far as they could before the Orcs closed in, and it was not far at all. These were Orcs bred in Gundabad and their Wargs above all others were built for speed and agility.

He called them to a stop, Khuzdul rolling like thunder, and he supposed that it would not matter much if the Hobbit heard it only to die the same day. They stood atop a small hill, stone at their back, a position that would be easily defendable if their numbers had been even. But thirteen lightly armed dwarrow and a frightened hobbit stood no chance against the twenty or more fully kitted Orc riders that came for their lives.

And Gandalf had abandoned them, at last.

He had known that he would, that he would not risk his own holy purpose for theirs, but he had thought that he at least would take his beloved Hobbit with him when he did.

He had hoped that he would.

But now he too would die, torn apart by Wargs or Orcish blade if he was lucky, and Thorin hoped for one desperate moment that he would be. The fate of those who were captured by Orcs was such a foul thing that he dared not even speak of it.

Not even think on it, not when it came to the man behind him.

He who stood as tall as his stature would allow, strange new blade hefted with unskilled hands, and looking for all the world as if he was willing to die by the side of Dwarrow he did not even really know.

And Thorin thought that this was such a sad little honor to have from a lost creature of comfort.

“Over here, you fools!” Bellowed a voice like rumbling water, and Thorin did not think on the relief of it as he ordered their retreat.

But the Orcs were not so easily deterred, and they would have no retreat without strength to cover it.

“Kíli!” He cried, as an Orc crested the hill, forty paces behind his sister’s sons who were frantically making for the Wizard.

Kíli’s eyes met his, Fíli’s inevitably followed, and they were preparing weapons before he had even given the order.

“Kill it!” He bellowed, reaching behind himself to push the Hobbit toward his keeper when he found naught but the wisp of a smudged jacket to grace his touch.

It was just as well, he thought, rushing to his kin to aid their plight.

They held off the Orcs as they came, and at first it was no trouble, but slowly more crested the hill at a time and they would not last, not the three of them.

Dwalin was yelling something from behind him, but he always was, it seemed, and Thorin needed to see his sister’s sons safe before his own self.

He needed that.

“Fíli!” He called, and his heir met his gaze in an instant. He looked very much like Vili then and a bit like Frerin had, near the end, and it ached somewhere deep in Thorin’s heart, “take your brother!”

And he was much more like Frerin then, because he hesitated in a way that Vili never would when given an order, and Thorin loved that about Fíli as much as he hated it.

“Go!” He barked, and his nephew grimaced at him and took his brother by the shoulder as he raced for the cavern. It was only the flash of ill placed grief in his eyes as he turned away that made Thorin realize that he hesitated for fear of leaving Thorin alone.

Thorin cut down three more Orcs before he followed, all the while cursing himself for forgetting that he was not the only one to have lost and to have grieved and to fear it all happening again.

He scrambled down the slope after them, boots hitting solid stone, and turning to face the entrance.

Orcs would not be dissuaded by such a disappearance but the funneling of the cave mouth gave them a chance to curb their overwhelming numbers.

When a familiar arrow flew past them, one that was distinctly un-Orcish, he felt such a visceral annoyance that it took him slightly by surprise.

A moment later an Orc rolled down to them, and Thorin knew even as they rushed it, that the thing was dead. Rolling it over, he grimaced at what he found but pulled the arrow out to be certain.

“Elves,” He said, and he did nothing to hide his distaste. The dwarrow around murmured in surprise and unease, and he could not help but relax slightly at the sound of them all.

Thirteen dwarrow, a hobbit, and a wizard, wheezing and frightened and alive.

Fíli and Kíli stood close by, hands tight around each other’s arms, even as they looked him over worriedly.

“I cannot see where the path leads,” Dwalin spoke up, hands trailing the stone, frowning and ill at ease at the lack of help that it provided, “do we follow?”

“Of course we do!” Bofur cried before Thorin could even respond, and in another time, in different halls, it would have been a mistake, a crime, even, but Thorin huffed in amusement at the spirit of his Company.

Thorin did not often have the chance to speak to all of them, but he had made it clear that there was to be no Court Protocol here. There were no titles and there was no speaking out of turn, and that was the way that he liked it when in the Company of those who may very well die by his side.

There was a great difference between leading an army or a Hall of Lords and leading a fool’s quest to a lost Kingdom.

He gave a nod to Dwalin, even as the miner and his kin had begun to march onward without leave, and his dearest friend looked very annoyed indeed as he followed. Thorin was still battle strung, but he allowed himself a moment to appreciate this levity, and the freeness with which he had found thirteen companions where he had only sought out soldiers.

The only one of present company to still address him by title had been the Hobbit.

And this was just as well, because he was not going to become any kind of companion to him, certainly no friend, and he was not entitled to anything otherwise.

And besides, if Thorin had lost whatever respect that the Hobbit had given him at the onset, then he at least would keep the respect that his title was due.

It was then that the halfling turned to him, a small little smile on his face and looking for all the world as if he was about to say something that amused him, before he seemed to realize himself.

As soon as his eyes met Thorin’s – and they were such a shimmering green, like dappled sunlight through the leaves of a blooming tree, and Thorin had never thought to compare anything deserving of praise to a plant, but such a thing could never be cut from any gem – whatever warmth in them had shuttered, closed itself off to him, and the friendly little smile had melted into a grimace.

Thorin felt slighted at the loss of it.

But this was not a slight that came unbidden, it was well earned, and he could not fault the halfling for recoiling from one who had insulted him as he had done.

He had not been entitled to the Hobbit’s regard even if it had been given to him willingly, once.

The halfling had thought well of him in the beginning, and he had not cared then but he thought that he might care now, if only because he had done the man a disservice in dismissing him so. He was a burden, ill-suited for both quest and battle; yet he was kind and lively and he made Fíli and Kíli happy. And that counted for a great deal in Thorin’s mind.

He could not say that he had changed his mind about him entirely, in fact he was certain that he had not, but he could no longer stand by his words that night.

The Hobbit had worth, even if it was not of the sort that would serve him in their Company.

He looked aside sharply, and took a shuffling step away, as if he could not bear to be in Thorin’s presence. This he could not abide. Something about it struck him as wrong, and though he did not know why, he had long learned to follow his instincts.

“Master Baggins, you best hurry on ahead.” He said, without thinking too long on it, and he took great care to soften his voice and his stance, and he tried to soften his face, even slightly, but he did not know if he could.

The Hobbit stopped his retreat and looked at him in surprise. Thorin found himself pleased to have gained both his attention and his shock. But then he continued to stand there for a moment, looking Thorin over heavily, as if he was searching for something, and his gaze felt like hot prickling over his skin. Thorin did not know if this was a search for sincerity or ulterior motive, or what have you, but he did know that he was very uncomfortable for no reason that he could discern.

Eventually, after what felt like entirely too long, something about the Hobbit softened, and Thorin marveled at the fact.

To think that a creature entirely made of soft homes, and soft sentiments, and what must be equally soft body, could be capable of even softer things.

And the soft little smile that he was given then, all pleased and twinkling green eyes, and softly swelling golden cheeks, was enough to stop whatever thoughts Thorin had had of proving his own sincerity.

“Yes, alright,” the Hobbit all but sighed, voice just as soft and sweet, and Thorin did not think that any grown man could be capable of it but there was something achingly comforting in his voice.

Something that brought to mind a warm hearth, and his Mother’s best worn armchair. It reminded him of stealing his Father’s old winter cloak to curl up in with his siblings on the stone floor, as Sigin'Adad[iv] told them all about Khazad-dûm and Durin the Deathless and the many tales of their people.

Something that called back to days before Adad[v] became Lord Father, and Sigin'Adad became My King, and he could still remember his mother’s face, and which braids she wore in her beard.

Thorin did not like the pain that came with that voice, but it would be a torture to let go of the memories that it brought back to him. When the halfling took his advice and turned to hurry on ahead, Thorin cursed himself for the loss.

“Thorin,” called Fíli, and Thorin tore himself away from the sight of the Hobbit trotting up to his wizard bitterly.

“Yes?” He answered and was surprised to find both of his boys hovering just behind his shoulder, eyes shadowed and worried, as they looked him over. They said nothing more, only shuffled closer to him and grasped unto his arms tightly. They had done this often at the start of their coming of ages – when he could not embrace either of them as freely as he once had, when he could no longer coddle them, and devote himself to nothing but raising them.

“Irak’adad,”[vi] murmured Kíli, and Thorin wished for a moment that he could take them into his arms once more, that he could whisper nonsense into their hair, and teach them braids as if they were pebbles again.

He wished fiercely that they would know nothing of war.

That all of their battle glory would be gained from the scuffles of bar fights and roadside bandits.

He wished that he could play at being their Father forever.

But Vili was dead, and that too was Thorin’s fault.

Still, he turned his wrists up to grasp unto their arms in return and he hoped that whatever surety in him that inspired armies could comfort his nephews.

“Are you two well?” He asked, and the two of them seemed to be comforted by his concern. He wondered how long it had been since he had last held them, truly.

“Not a scratch,” Kíli boasted, and his brown eyes, so like his mother’s and inherited from as far back as King Naín the Second, were sparkling with pride even as fear faded ever so slowly.

Thorin did not like to see the fear there but he was proud at the mastery of it that Kíli had learned.

“Only thanks to my help, naddith,”[vii] Fíli scolded, teasing, and eyes just as sparkling blue as Thorin’s. They were, the both of them, such evenly mixed examples of the best of Durin’s line and Thorin often felt that it was them who he had to live up to. Their resilience, and humor, and cheer. Fíli’s burgeoning wisdom, hidden beneath youthful mischief. Kíli’s fierce loyalty, the mark of any great Longbeard Lord that had ever lived.

Thorin huffed out what might have been a laugh, a very long time ago, and gripped them tightly for a moment before letting go.

“This eases my heart,” he murmured to them, quiet and sure, and he smiled slightly at the delight that filled their faces, before he straightened to full strength once more, “but now it is time to move. We follow the path.”

They straightened to attention at that and nodded to him in what might have been some form of mockery before they trotted on ahead of him.

He watched them for a moment, heads bowed together in whispers, the Hobbit trailing along in front of them, his Wizard smiling at his side. Ten weary dwarrow shuffling in front of them, leaning on each other and chattering lowly.

What an odd picture it was, but one that brought him some warmth.

He followed behind them, preparing himself for the miserable sight of an Elf nest and the insults that lay within. He did not know how long until they reached the Valley and he thought at last to ask the stone.

Even as he reached to the Earth for guidance, he found nothing to answer him but a hazy murmuring of far off cliffs. The stone seemed unwilling to answer him, beyond the suggestion that he would be safe, and that his path was true. He could not see how, trekking into the maw of an enemy’s den, but never before had his Stone Sight been false. He looked ahead, to see if perhaps Bofur was fairing any better, miner that he was. It was to his surprise that his first sight of hands trailing stone was that of the halfling’s.

Tan long fingered hands traveled along the natural crevices in the stone with a reverence that Thorin would not have expected to see there. A touch that spoke of a quiet awe and an understanding of something greater than oneself, something ancient and sacred. His eyes were shuttered, face relaxed in the silent search for something that one wasn’t quite sure that they would find. It was a reverence that struck Thorin to the core, a deep respect for the things most sacred to all Khazâd[viii] from the day that the Seven Fathers woke upon Mahal’s anvil.

It was not something that should have come so easily to an outsider – certainly, in all of their long histories no outsider had ever understood the sacredness of the earth and the care with which it ought to be handled.

No outsider had ever understood so deeply the heart of a dwarf.

Even as he watched, the Hobbit’s softly creased brow furrowed in concentration, his lips twisting up slightly in a pout as he sought out whatever it was that he hunted. And then, in a moment of discovery, he gasped, and his eyes flew open, and his face shown with the brightest smile that Thorin had ever seen him give.

He looked so delighted, so enamored with whatever he had found in the stone that all the months’ long weariness all but melted away from him, and he glowed with all the cheer of his beloved rolling lands. He looked decades younger. Although he was filth smeared and weary, he smiled as though he had never left his warm little Hobbit-Hole; his fine gold embroidered waistcoat and shiny brass-cut buttons.

Thorin at once reveled in this show of cheer, rumored as it had been of the shire-folk, and despaired at the inevitable snuffing out of such light.

The Hobbit said something to his Wizard, delighted and aglow, and Thorin wished that he could hear it. To know what it was that delighted him so, to know how to rekindle that soft flame, to know the ringing tone of his bell voice as it shivered with joy.

He wanted to hear it.

Gandalf smiled warmly at the Hobbit and his small face melted into a show of laughter, giggles that Thorin still could not hear. Giggles that had rung across their campfires to mock him night after night and he could not begrudge his own for their sharing in it, but he could not help but to feel a fierce envy of the wizard then.

Dwarrow were jealous by nature, Durin’s line doubly so, and Thorin found no shame in this so long as it was carefully restrained. To master one’s own weakness was the mark of a worthy Dwarrow, one who honored and overcome the challenges set before them by their maker.

But this was not a jealousy, for nothing here was his to claim, and therefore could not be stolen from him.

This was a wicked envy, a feeling that he was ashamed to have, a covetous desire for that which belonged to another.

He could rest aside undue anger that bit at him in the small hours by dwindling firelight, but he found it insurmountable now, faced with a gift that he desired being given to one who was so unworthy of it.

Could the Hobbit not see that Tharkûn had given him up? Had traded his life for whatever interest he had in the stronghold of the East?

Could he not see that ‘Gandalf’ was only a pretense and that whatever care he had been shown could only ever be false for as long as the wizard led him blindly to his death? Could he not see that the Wizard could not truly care for him, did not have the right to claim so, as he stole him from his warmth and his comfort and thrust him into a dragon’s maw?

Light broke through the gentle dark, alighting upon curling ocher hair, and Thorin ached.

The Hobbit said something, his lips moving faintly even as they stretched into a wicked smirk, mischief fierce in his eyes that sparkled in the wayward light.

Thorin should have learned to read lips. He had been offered lessons once, but his eyes were too weak and he had spies to do so for him, but oh, he should have learned. The soft muttering of the dwarrow ahead grew louder and Thorin wrenched his eyes away, though it nearly pained him to do so, and looked toward their vanguard.

It would not do to lose his way.

Ahead, the cavern ended, and the sun shone brightly in its red tinged descent over a grassy outcropping. A breeze rolled onto them, gentle and sickly sweet, nothing like the smell of Shire-flowers in bloom or Longbeard dumplings dusted with sugar. He scowled at the first breathe of it, sweet and light and water and wood tinged both. He caught the after taste of starlight on his tongue and he knew before he even came upon the sight.

“Welcome to the Last Homely House East of the Sea; the Valley of Imladris,” the Wizard said, arms sweeping grandly over the waterfalls and winding catwalks of the fair valley. Thorin grated at the pride in his voice, as if this place was his own, as if he had claim here. Tharkûn looked over the company and whatever he saw must have pleased him because a smugness stole over his weathered face as he carried on.

“In the common tongue, it is know as-“

“Rivendell.” Came a reverent whisper in a voice of silver bells, and Thorin felt betrayed at the sound of it. That the Hobbit should look upon the land of Elves with all the reverence he had shown to the sacred voice of the earth – it burned at him.

That he should look upon this Valley of Traitors with such quiet awe, face soft and childlike, and with none of the careful thoughtfulness that he bore in their company; that he should speak its name in Westron as if it was known to him, dear to him – it made Thorin angrier than he had any right to be.

The earth came to life around them, all the green of it vibrant and prosperous beyond even the skill of elvish magic, and Thorin knew that the halfling had done it in his delight. He would make a sea of blooms for the Princes, and clusters of blossoms for the Ur line, and soft sprouts of weeds for the Wizard but he could not possibly think to magic forth life in honor of these folk.

It was unconscionable, and it must too have been the work of Tharkûn.

“You led us here on purpose, Wizard,” he spit at the Old Man, tongue sharp in his unreasonable throws of betrayal, a loyalty torn that had not ever been formed in the first place, “into the arms of our enemy.”

Gandalf had been smiling at the Hobbit; of course he had, he had likely been putting talk of the fairness of Elven-folk into his head for months; but now he scowled at Thorin and the bite of it pleased him.

“Your ‘enemy’,” he scoffed, annoyance overflowing, and Thorin was glad to throw his anger at his feet, “the only ill-will that you will find in this Valley is that which you bring yourself!”

And Thorin knew this was false, knew to his core that the bad blood that lay between these two peoples was centuries deep and built upon slaughter after slaughter and betrayals uncountable. It was in the fall Tumunzahar[ix] and Gabilgathol[x] and the shame and slaughter of the petty-dwarrow, exiled and then hunted for sport as they sought shelter after being thrown from their homes. It was in arrogance and birthright and the very origin of their race.

Thorin would have said as much, would have bellowed it at him, but he did not know how to say it in the common tongue, did not know how to express the reason that the very thought of elves burned at his pride and his honor. Regardless, it was old history, long felt and long kept, and it belonged between his people and the Elves and no one else. It was not to be spoken of to outsiders; not to be spoken of at all if it could be helped.

It mattered little; he was sure that Tharkûn knew without ever being told.

“You cannot think that they will approve of our quest,” he said instead, because the Elves cared little for anything that disturbed their eternal peace, and parties, and harmonies. They cared not for the plight of mortals, and less still for the birthright of Dwarrow.

“Of course not!” Gandalf said, as if he understood all of this and cared little either way, as if Thorin was being childish to assume otherwise, and if he hadn’t already been on edge that alone would have set his temper aflame, “But we have a map that we cannot read and here lies the home of one on middle-earth who can read it.”

And Thorin was going to say that he’d tunnel into the mountain with his bear-hands if it meant avoiding the Weed-eaters, that he’d rather swallow hot coals than beg help of the immortal fools, but Tharkûn brushed past him then, his grey robes a rustle of dismissal as he passed.

“We have little choice at all, Thorin!” He stopped only briefly to shout before he carried on, “This will require no small amount of tact and a fair bit of charm- I suggest that you leave the talking to me.”

And he left, swaning along the catwalks of the Elves without a care, and without paying any heed to the opinions of those about him. Immortal that he was, Thorin doubted that he cared a bit for anything that they had to say. He suffered their company when he had need of it, and led them all around by their noses, but never explained himself, and never payed credence to scholar or king because he sat so far above them both.

The plight of Durin’s race to him was naught but a means to an end. To reclaim Erebor was to fortify the Free People’s in the East. To add one more fortress to fend off the deep and the dark.

He did not care for honor or birthright or lost homes. He did not care for kings or smiths. He did not care for Dwarrow or Men or Hobbits. His only care was for duty; for Orcs and wars and dragons and dark powers festering in wounds long rendered. For the task set to him by his master of old and the refuse left by his late enemy.

He was not of this world, and it was only the ill things wrought by his own kind that he sought after.

And yet, he would lay gentle hands upon a Hobbit. He would brush his shoulder, and rub along his back, and share a pipe and laugh with him in the quite of the setting sun. He would seem almost mortal then; nearly the Old Man he had disguised himself to seem. His eyes would go soft with affection and grief, in a way that Thorin would not look upon for a moment more than could be helped.

It hurt to see.

His Father had once looked upon him as such, and it was not the same, could not be, but it was close enough, too close, and it _hurt_.

And yet he led him ever onward into death.

This Wizard would not heed the word of Dwarrow Princes-in-exile but ever did he hang on the reverence of gullible shire-folk.

And true enough, as he looked upon the Burglar, he was met with a bewildered stare, as if it was Thorin that was being unreasonable. As if it was he that was deaf to the words of others, as if he had no just cause for his concern. And this should not have meant anything to him. The Hobbit was ignorant of their people, of their history, and their ways. But he was also ignorant of the ways of Wizards, of the unknowable plans that ever they wove, of the way that their interest never lay with the people with which they walked and ever in a place unknowable.

Of the way that he would be betrayed by the man that he trusted – of the way that he already had.

“I suppose you knew of this?” He asked of the Hobbit, too trusting and ever pleased with whatever trap the Wizard led him into. He had seemed too happy to find this valley, as if he had hoped to see it, as if the Wizard had told him fairy-stories of it, and the folk within. But he would not have told him of the cowardice of the Elves, or the countless kinslayings among their own, or their callous disregard for those with which they walked this land.

“What?” Was the halfling’s answer, flat and toneless, as if he knew exactly what it was Thorin had said, understood clearly his meaning, and only wished to see if he would stand by his word. His green eyes went cold and narrow in annoyance and Thorin did not like it, did not feel the singing pleasure of a rage returned.

“As pleased as you seem to be by coming upon these Elves, one would think you had been hoping for this outcome,” and he did look pleased, more than he had been by anything save Thorin’s own nephews in months. He was flushed pleasantly and his color was no longer paled by fear or blotchy with exertion and Thorin did not like it, did not like the way that he had gasped out the name of this valley, did not like the way that he had been so delighted as to bolster their greens, and had never once seemed so pleased in all the time that Thorin had known him.

He was so happy and it was brought about by deceit and folk that would surely show no interest in him in return.

“Yes, well,” He said, moments of silence passing as he did nothing but gaze at Thorin in challenge and no small amount of annoyance, a challenge that Thorin would not back away from in all of his anger and pride, “as absolutely ridiculous as you’re being, I’m quite glad to have some pleasant company for a change.”

He straightened his little waistcoat, faded green and filthy, and nowhere near as elaborate as the ones Thorin had seen hanging in his little home, nowhere near as bright as it had once been, nowhere near as lovely as it should have been.

He tossed his tawny curls and huffed a breath and walked right past Thorin without ever meeting his gaze again.

The Hobbit bumped against him as he passed, just hitting the mark between his bicep and shoulder. It was meant to be forceful, surely, because there was no reason for him to touch him with anything short of contempt, and yet his shoulder was warm and there was a soft give of unhardened flesh beneath and Thorin nearly staggered back though there was little to no force behind the touch.

In another moment, at a different time, it might have felt a touch of comfort, of assurance, and Thorin wished that it were so, wished that he could go more than one full day without making the Hobbit hateful of him, wished that he could take him aside and explain why the fairness of this valley was a trick, why the Wizard was a traitor, but he could not, he would not.

It was not his place, he had no right, and whatever fate befell the Hobbit was no concern of his.

He had said that, hadn’t he?

As he sat in his home and ate his bread. As he slept beneath his blankets and gazed upon portraits of his kin. As he smelled the spice of his Hobbit-hole and his hearth and offered nothing in return save danger and a Dragon and a fools’ hope of a small heap of gold.

No, he had no right to demand anything of this Burglar beyond that which his employment obliged. He had no right to tear him away from whatever comfort he found in the Wizard. No right to ask him to forgo whatever meager joy he could find here.

It was not his place to ask these things of him, it was not his place to instill distrust of others in him, it was not his place to protect him. He could not claim that right when he knew that not even the mighty Tharkûn could do so. He could not claim that right when he could not even show him the respect that he was due. He could not bring himself to respect him as a companion on this quest when every step closer to the wild seemed a step closer to an untimely grave.

For all that he was a clever and sharp-witted Hobbit, when it came to his own self and those to whom he gave his affection he was nothing but a fool.

“Thorin, laddie,” Balin said, quiet but firmly at his side, and Thorin knew that it was time to move on. It was ever Balin who was their look-out, it was ever Balin who tore him from his dark musings. Though he grated against the very thought, there was no other course of action that he could see left to them.

Against his every instinct, they made for the Valley of the Elves.

The bridge was narrow, and high, and the stone from which it was made sang in a voice too Elvish to bear. Onward they trudged, single file and cautious, and Tharkûn’s pointed hat led the way like a standard leading the battle charge. The Hobbit was just after him, following after his travel worn robes like they were his own Mother’s apron-strings.

The river beneath them bubbled and foamed, and he spared a thought for what he might do if one of them slipped and plunged into the deep of it. It was idle and proved useless as soon they were upon the Gates of Imladris proper, guarded by intricately carved guards of stone. Two Elvish sentinels stood watch with sightless eyes on either side of the gates, and Thorin scoffed at the lack of proper gates to be seen. Indeed Imladris’ gates never closed, as it was ever a place of welcome if not one of sound fortification. The stonework was elegant and careful, but it was aging, and the upkeep of it left something to be desired. The entire place it seemed, was just this side of glittering and pristine. Unusual for Elves, who as a rule, kept their dwellings as eternal and untouched by time as they themselves.

But, alas, the ages were wearing on and the Age of Elves, too, wore along its path.

They came into an open court, fit for muster and reception both, and before them stood a winding path of stairs and a hive of open terraced buildings. Breezes flowed freely throughout these halls and the lack of enclosed walls was unnerving if nothing else. They stood at the bottom of the stairs, clustered nervously and taking account of their surroundings when footsteps came light upon the stair.

Turning they found an Elf, young in appearance and tepid of expression approaching them. Tharkûn smiled in recognition of him and stepped forward and Thorin was glad to let him do so. Thorin would not speak to Elven-filth had he the choice, and since this was Tharkûn’s plan he had best take over its execution.

The Elf said something then and smiled lightly to the Wizard, making a strange gesture of bringing his arm across his chest and then out slowly as if in offering. Tharkûn returned it and they began to converse in the rolling, trilling speech of the Elves. Gandalf seemed to ask a question and before he was answered, the Hobbit gasped lightly in alarm.

Without a thought, Thorin’s gaze flew to him and found that he was half turned to gaze back the way they had come, brow creased slightly in confusion even as his eyes sparkled in that infuriating show of wonder. He had not but a moment to wonder what had spooked the domestic creature this time, when hunting horns rang from the falls. Hoof-beats echoed through the stone and he knew at once that Elvish cavalry was upon them.

“Du-Bekâr! Close ranks!”[xi] He ordered, hefting his axe and pushing back into the bulk of the company. They formed a battle circle once more, eerily reminiscent of the stance they’d taken only earlier this same day. From the corner of his sight he saw Dwalin take up arms by his side and Bofur wrench the Hobbit into the center of the hoard. Reassured by the heft of his axe and his oldest friend he readied himself for the assault.

In came the beasts, huge and elegant, each with an Elven soldier astride his back, sparkling in the golden hues of the evening light. Around the court they wound themselves, a spiraling mass of heaving beast and perfect coppery steel. They encircled the Company, cutting off escape and making them dizzy as they tried to find a point to focus in the towering, twirling mess of it all. A cry rang through the ranks and the cavalry came to a halt.

Forward rode an elf that bore no helm, his armor a burnished copper, and his long brown hair unbound except for two small braids which hung artfully from his temples.

His braids held no meaning.

They were small and tightly wound, plaited with care but without thought. The only worth they held was in superfluous vanity. As did most Elvish craft.

Upon his brow he bore, instead of a sensible helm as his men did, a delicate and winding circlet of silver.

This must then be the Lord of the Valley.

Here rode Elrond son of Eärendil; he who was given the choice between the path of mortals and Elves. He who chose the latter.

“Ah, Mithrandir!” He exclaimed and smiled something bright and genuine that Thorin had not expected from any of the detached First-wakened race. He dismounted from his steed and took up a blade handed to him by one of his men, even as he rounded to grasp the Wizard by his shoulders and make a show of greeting him warmly.

They spoke together for a moment in that language of warbling rivers before the Lord brandished his prize – a foul Gundabad Blade.

“Strange,” He said in Westron, the common tongue flowing smooth and unaccented as if he been speaking it all along, “for Orcs to come so close to our borders.”

And true enough, it was a strange thing for Orcs to ride so close to a Kingdom of Elves. Their mortal hatred for all things that the Elves were and stood for kept them far from Elvish lands – else they ride for war. It was the hunt that inevitably brought them onto the fair folk and their home, and for this Thorin could not deny his own fault.

“That may have been us,” he spoke up, unwilling to shirk responsibility when in the presence of a Lord of Cowards. He stepped forward, Dwalin shuffling in unease to let him pass, worried looks pinning him from every Dwarf as he went, and even a stray gaze of anxious ivy green. The Elf Lord looked upon him in surprise, as if he had not all but asked for their leader to step forward and speak when he had made his point in the Common Tongue.

Elves and their airs; ever arrogant and ever mischievous.

“Welcome,” he said, regal and heartfelt, as he made that strange Elvish greeting, “Thorin, son of Thrain.”

Thorin withheld his surprise at this. Elves oft knew things that they ought not to, mad gossiping creatures that they were. Nonsense songs, and quick-flash gossip, and half-hearted promises; these were the tricks that they delighted in.

“I do not believe that we have met,” he said in place of his quick-trigger bite, aware of the unsteady ground upon which he stood, unwilling to move forward and unable to go back.

“You have your Grandfather’s bearing,” the Elf said kindly, and the sad smile that flitted across his sharp features set Thorin’s temper aflame, “I knew Thrór, when he ruled Under the Mountain.”

He had always taken much after King Thrór.

Thrór, the Great Builder.

He who had taken a terrified people, chased from their home in the North, and built a great Kingdom out of abandoned mines. He who had banished the freezing terror of an Ice-drake with all the splendor and riches and pride of the Mountain. Who had led his people to glory from ruin, had looked past his own sorrow and grief and built the greatest Kingdom of Dwarrow to be seen in this Age in only a century. Who had ruled in wisdom and wealth for another century yet.

A long, prosperous, glowing century – before the watchful nights had closed in.

Thrór, Sigin'Adad, who had been stoic and regal as the stone over which he ruled. Who had been gentle with his grandchildren; who had held him as though Thorin were made from coal-dust. Who had taught him how to argue with Lords and Ladies, who had taught him the ancient songs, who had let him wear his crown when no one was looking and Thorin was not yet grown enough to wear it as more than an ostentatious necklace.

Thrór of the intricate beard, and ruby sewn robes, and gold veined war-axe. Thrór of rumbling story-time voices and wandering market-inspections that always ended with a proffered sweet and less paperwork than was due.

Thrór who went mad.

Thrór, who became suspicious and unreachable. Who clutched after a jewel even as his wife and daughter-in-law burned in Dragon-fire at his back. Thrór, who saw droves of starving dwarrowlings and fading widows, and could think of nothing but the glory and gold of the Dwarrowdelf. Thrór, who had led his people to slaughter there, who had decimated their race in his folly, who had cut in half his own house by virtue of blood and greed.

Thorin had not yet been full grown when he had followed his Mad King; when he had been battle-christened as the Oakenshield.

Frerin was yet a child – he had yet to even begin designs for his coming of age bead. He had not even thought to. He never would.

Thrór would not live to see any of his grandchildren’s Coming of Age. He had spoken of it with some fondness and measured excitement, once; had mused on the gifts he would bestow them – a golden harp for Thorin, a silver cut loupe for Dís, an ivory inlaid chisel set for Frerin – which beads they ought to wear, how proud he would be.

In the end, Thorin thought that he would not have noticed nor cared for the passing of the occasion, had he drawn breath to see it.

“Indeed?” He sneered, angered that this traitor would claim to know his grandfather, speak of him fondly as though he had known the Thrór of old, untainted by gold-sickness and blindness. And yet where had he been when Thrór slipped into madness? When he barred his doors to his advisors, to his court, eventually even to his Son? Why had it been Thorin, adolescent and confused, that had sat his Grandfather’s sick bed?

Where was Elrond Half-elven, greatest living healer of Middle-earth, when the King Under the Mountain had fallen ill?

“He made no mention of you,” he spat, and it was rude, and it was crass, and Tharkûn looked as if he would like to strike him, but it was true. Thrór had made no mention of Elrond. He had made no mention of any peoples that were not within reach of his treasury.

Elrond’s fair face folded then, his sorrow tinged kindness tapering into an aloof courtesy that eased the prickling of Thorin’s skin. He did not need nor want the pity of Elves. He did not want aid from false friends who had abandoned his people, his family, his King.

The Elvish-lord gazed upon him silently for a moment before he drew himself up and said some nonsense in his mother-tongue, eternal gaze ever locked upon his own.

“What is he sayin’?” Growled Glóin from behind him, ever proud, ever suspicious as any proper Durin, “Does he offer us insult?”

The unmistakable sound of shifting weapons sounded from behind and Thorin felt bolstered by the fight in them. There was no need to seethe here, no need to let this Elf have more of him than he was due. He had better folk to spend his energy on. His Company; his kin, his friends, his most loyal of subjects. The most noble of Khazâd, each and every one, all deserving a mine of his own, a hall to be proud of.

“No, Master Glóin,” Tharkûn sighed in a suspiciously Gandalf fashion, as though they were being silly little dwarrowlings, the lot of them, “he is offering you food.”

Silence washed over them for a moment, surprise warring with confusion, before at last they broke it to turn and confer with each other. Treaty and trade, both were best done in large numbers and with much thought, if not a fair bit of haggling where one could.

The Ur’s were all for bunking with the elves; common folk as they were, they had few quarrels with Elven folk beyond that which was learned and that they took up for their King – and they were hungry and tired besides. The Ri brothers agreed, though Dori puffed about it for the sake of propriety. The sons of Gróin were against it, noble dwarrow who held grudges as they ought to. The In brothers were against it for the sake of pride but voted in favor for the sake of practicality. Fíli and Kíli would take food and shelter from Trolls if it meant resting their weary feet.

The Hobbit voiced no opinion, thankfully, though he somehow seemed a fair bit exasperated and amused at once. He smiled sardonically at the group of them, and Thorin tried to ignore the way that he leaned bemusedly on his walking stick and stuck his clever fingers in little waistcoat pockets.

Nodding to each other, they reached an agreement.

“Well, in that case, lead on!” Commanded Glóin imperiously, and the Hobbit sniffed quietly in aborted laughter then. Thorin did not know why such a thing would amuse him, as he too must be weary and hungry.

But the Elf Lord seemed to have heard the sound of him, soft and musical in the way that dwarrow were not, and his attention was passed from Thorin to the Hobbit with an alarming look of surprise. His gaze raked over the Hobbit in interest and Thorin bit back a bark of outrage. He did not like the surprised delight that flitted across Elrond’s face then, did not appreciate the way that he glanced at Tharkûn in question, the way that the wizard smiled back as though pleased with his reaction.

Elrond seemed amused, faint creases about the eyes marring his perfect face as he smiled a small secretive thing, and if Thorin had not trusted him before then he never would now.

Elrond had his servant, Lindir, who had greeted them, lead them away to a banquet hall, where they found themselves seated at several low tables already laden with food. They sat with a good deal of suspicious looking about and prodding and checking for hidden weapons or traps. Though one may partake of a meal offered by outsiders in good faith, it was only a fool who did not check to see that his wine was not fouled.

Gandalf entered from a separate door, the Lord of the House at his side and suitably changed from his armor into flowing Elvish robes. Thorin politely refrained from wrinkling his nose at them, though he would have much preferred that the Elf had kept his armor on. Such flowing cloth and light hewn linens made Elrond look as though he might float away on the wind and it was harder for Thorin to look upon him as a battle-hardened Lord at the thought.

They sat at a table apart from the others, smaller and higher, and fitted with chairs suitable for the Long-races, and yet one left of a dwarrow’s size. Elrond smiled at him and bowed shallowly as he gestured to the set place; a seat of honor and an acknowledgment to Thorin’s status that did not go unappreciated.

Long had it been since any other than his people or those they traded with saw him as more than a traveling mercenary-smith.

Temper settled by the walk to the hall and, admittedly by the scent and sight of food, Thorin nodded his thanks and took the offered chair. At their feet his Company followed suit, each settling their weapons and travel packs loudly and falling to sit with a cacophony of groans and sighs. They set in on the waiting breads and drink laid before them, cautiously poking around the greenery that sat beside it. None dared touch the misplaced plants until, in a bizarrely assured movement, the Hobbit took up a bowl of greens and placed a good portion upon his plate. He then reached for a glass pitcher full of some amber liquid that had previously seemed to be some herb-tonic. He poured it over the plant life and proceed to eat the entire concoction as if it were porridge.

Gasps of surprise rounded the tables and though he was enamored with his plate, the Hobbit reluctantly looked up from it to meet the shocked gazes of the Dwarrow.

“Ah, um,” He stammered, all at once the center of a load of dwarrow where here to now he’d been all but ignored by more than half of them, “is something wrong?”

The Company all began to speak over each other at once and Thorin lost all trace of the Hobbit’s voice in the cacophony. Lord Elrond laughed openly at this, and even Gandalf seemed fondly bemused.

“My dear Elrond,” he began, voice respectful and friendly, and Thorin realized all at once that their closeness was indeed genuine friendship rather than the automatic gravitation of one immortal to another, “I had wondered if you would look upon some blades of ours, and tell us your appraisal.”

“Certainly, mellon,”[xii] Elrond replied, seemingly pleased at the asking of such a favor. Gandalf practically beamed at the reply and nodded to Thorin as if to signal that he should go first. Thorin was reluctant to give up his blade to one he did not trust, doubly so a blade as fine as this. Still, he would get nowhere without at least this concession, and in truth he had some curiosity for the origin of his fine elvish blade.

Thorin frowned something fierce but acquiesced and passed over his blade. He took some comfort in the thought that he was still heavily armed in its absence and he yet had the blades of the Company at his back.

Unsheathing it, Elrond’s curious fair face took on a youthful wonder that ill suited his aura of immense age.

“This is Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver,” he said in no small wonder, turning the blade slowly in the ever-golden light of the banquet hall, “a famous blade forged by the High Elves of the West, my kin.”

His rapture at the sight waned only slightly as he sheathed Orcrist, silvery and flowing in his hand as if it belonged there. He offered it back to Thorin as if it were the greatest of all treasures. His adoration for this blade, for whatever history or ties that it held of his kin, obviously meant a great deal to Elrond.

Thorin could not believe that the Lord would so willingly give it up.

“May it serve you well,” He smiled with a grim sort of pleasantness, as if to say that he hoped that it would not be needed at all. Whether for its own sake or for Thorin’s he could not say. With no clear idea of what the Elf Lord truly meant Thorin chose to take the high-road and assume the best of him, if only this once. After all, Orcrist was a fine name for a blade and Thorin was pleased enough to learn it.

He took the elvish blade back with a respectful nod and thought, if for but a moment, that coming to the Valley may not have been a mistake after all.

“Then I will keep this sword in honor,” he said, gracious as he was able in his distrust, “may it soon cleave goblins once again.”

Elrond took Gandalf’s blade next. An elvish longsword with a tapered edge that ought to have been shatter prone but that Thorin knew was stronger than the highest grade of steel. As Elrond unsheathed the sword his gasp of recognition, entirely un-elvish and real, made Thorin think at last that perhaps Elrond was not the aloof creature that he had seemed to be.

After all, he was Half-elven. It was likely that he had by chance avoided inheriting the undesirable qualities of his immortal kin.

“And this is Glamdring,” he said, awe in his eyes familiar and young, a lord looking upon the greatness of his forebearers and humbled by it, “the Foehammer. Sword of the King of Gondolin. These were made for the Goblin Wars of the First Age.”

He gazed upon the blade reverently for a moment longer, eternal gaze wonderous as he spun the sword this way and that in the light, tracing the elvish engravings and testing its weight. Still, there was a vague sadness behind his eyes, a grief and a guilt and a longing, and Thorin recalled at once that he had been born, then, in the first age – that he had seen several thousand years pass him by and all the glories and tragedies therein.

It was a fate that Thorin did not envy; his own measly hundred and some odd years weighed on him heavily enough and he could not bear the thought of living through the same grief for five - ten lifetimes more than he was due. His Maker had indeed been wise to make his people mortal; tough and doughty and fallible still. It saved them the suffering of arrogance and coldness such as the Elves.

“Where did you come by these?” Elrond asked at length, eyes still gently tracing the engraved hilt as he slid Glamdring back into its sheath. He handed it back to Gandalf and Thorin nearly reeled in outrage at the flippant way that the Wizard accepted the honored blade, flipping it around absently to lay at his side as if it were his cracked old staff.

Thorin had no love for Elves but he had respect for the battle that they had done, once. The wars they had fought beside his kin, to glory and to doom both. Elves turned ever traitor, but their friendship was a wonderous thing while it lasted. Elrond himself had fought in the same War as mighty Durin the Deathless, eldest of the Seven Fathers, father of his Clan, direct ancestor and progenitor of their line of kings. Though this meant little in the face of the betrayals of the ages between, it was at least something of worth to sit in the Halls of one who had looked upon the face of his most honored of grandfathers.

“Oh, you see,” Tharkûn began, weathered face grinning in ill placed delight, “we came upon them in a Troll-hoard along the Great East Road – well, shortly before we were ambushed by Orcs.”

“And what were you doing on the Great East Road?” Elrond asked sharply, fair face stony and regal in his sudden suspicion. Silence rang over the Hall, Tharkûn doing a fair job of appearing sheepish and caught where Thorin knew him to have done so on purpose. The wizard was ever mischievous and ever annoying about such things. Perhaps the Elves suited him in more than their shared eternity.

“Ah, well, in truth we had hoped to seek your counsel on that matter, mellon nin,” Tharkûn smiled pleasantly and Elrond frowned in return. Thorin was glad to find that even ancient Elven lords were not immune to such wizardly disturbance as this.

It was in this way, through overly pleasant dinner talk and veiled insinuations and careful slips of the tongue that Elrond had agreed to humor their questions, though he did not know what they were.

Still, dinner passed and Thorin found himself listening only distractedly to the Lord and the Wizard as he watched the Hobbit pack away food plate after plate after plate. Five, six plates in, coin had started to exchange hands, Nori keeping tabs of the wagers and all eyes firmly glued on the Hobbit. He seemed to take a small portion of his greens every other plate, and polished that clean too, to the astonishment of all.

Even as he made polite conversation, his hands never stopped methodically cutting, or dishing, or pouring, as he packed away plate after plate. Indeed, he managed it so seamlessly that nothing had seemed odd until he was three plates in and showed no sign of slowing.

“You’d think that we’d been starving him,” Thorin heard grumbled from somewhere in the din, and the thought caused a roiling feeling of unease in him.

Thorin quickly stomped down the feeling, annoyed with himself. He had allowed himself too many slips of thought today, most at the Hobbits fault he was sure.

If the Burglar had any issue with his provisions he would have said as much. A pampered creature like him would not settle for anything less, he was sure. After all, he’d fussed well enough over their state of affairs those first few days. Besides, the Hobbit had become their de facto sous chef somewhere in these past three months and he surely was wily enough to have squirreled away enough food for himself had he the need to do so.

Regardless, it wasn’t as if he seemed especially determined in his meal; he simply picked away at each plate, absently but steadily, until it was clean, and he must move on to another. Certainly not the frenzy of one nearly starved.

Eight plates in and the serving elves had begun to place each fresh platter squarely between Bombur and the Hobbit, clearing away all of the other dishes that had been unused for quite a while now. A fierce gleam came to Bombur’s eyes and he seemed to set himself to task, cleaning his eighth plate fiercely. The Burglar was speaking quietly to Kíli and did not seem to notice either the challenge or the wagers being made around him.

Indeed, he seemed very intent on the youngest Durin, and Thorin was momentarily alarmed at the despondent and frustrated look on the face of his sister’s son. Once again, Thorin was aggrieved at the fact that he seemed to have missed something to do with his not-quite-sons and vowed to ask the boy about it when he had the chance.

The Hobbit said something softly, and he put down his fork to lay a hand upon Kíli’s shoulder, the gesture caused a watery smile to spread across his scruffy young face. The Hobbit smiled faintly, and his hand twitched upward, and Thorin had the fleeting and gut-wrenching thought that he had meant to push back Kíli’s unruly hair.

It was a mad thought, unbidden and alarmingly inappropriate, and Thorin was quick to put it down to exhaustion.

The Hobbit smiled, and then for no reason Thorin could see, he carefully moved his still heavy plate over to sit before Kíli even as he bent closer to say something. Thorin, who knew his nephew well enough to be sure that he had already eaten more than his fair share, paled even as Kíli grimly set to the offered food. Mahal wept, that boy was going to be ill before the night was through.

“How curious,” murmured Elrond, and the surprise in his voice wrenched Thorin’s attention away from the low table and back to the conversation from which he had strayed.

“Hmmm?” Tharkûn questioned, idly sipping at his wine before he followed Elrond’s line of sight down to the Company and, to Thorin’s faint embarrassment, the duo whom he had been watching.

“Ah,” he said, a fond but mischievous smile spreading across his weathered face, and he was Gandalf once more, “yes, it is isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Elrond agreed, eyeing the Hobbit curiously as he swirled his wine, “then again, perhaps not.”

A faint smile came to him then, curious and knowing all at once and Thorin did not like it one bit.

“A Fallohide[xiii] with the taste of a Stoor[xiv], it seems,” Elrond mused, even as they watched the Hobbit tuck away plate number ten and push a plate of sweetmeats toward Fíli across from him. Thorin did not know what that meant; whether it was an insult or not or how he should react. He had been raised a lesser Prince and a diplomat, and lived his adult years haggling and bargaining well enough to know better than to display such ignorance.

He took a sip of his own wine silently and wished for some of the ale being served upon the lower table.

Oblivious, the Hobbit smiled fondly even as he fixed himself an even heftier plate to replace his gift. Bombur was flagging at his side and at last the Hobbit seemed to notice, turning to him with polite concern and ignorant of the insult he gave to his competition. Nori was cackling and nearly falling off of his overstuffed cushion in his delight.

“That argument could be made,” Gandalf said, and his eyes trailed after a serving elf as they approached the competitors below and he chuckled at the way the Hobbit delighted at the fresh greens that they bore and how he followed their departure with eyes full of wonder, “but still, he is Fallohidish to the core. If you’re curious, I recall that he’s quite capable in all manner of Hobbitish, even Old Marish[xv] if you’ll believe it.”

Elrond seemed pleased by this somehow and nodded serenely before changing the subject and Thorin was not at all interested at the new topic.

What was a Fallohide? Fallow as in barren and unplanted? The field unplowed and unused, left to nature for the year and not to bear fruit. That did not suit, not at all.

Fallow as in the old usage of Men, to mean pale and yellow? Yes, perhaps. The pale color of wheat, the gold of honey, the amber of late evening sunlight through the trees. Yes, then perhaps he could be called fallow, though it still seemed too crass a word for the Hobbit.

But what of a Stoor? What bearing did either have on his ‘taste’? So many questions, so much he did not know, so much that he would have neither right nor chance to learn.

The dinner dragged on, and Bombur – to the surprise of all – conceded his defeat. With a shaking hand, he lifted one last sausage link to his green tinged face, the last morsel on his plate. His eyes were pained and unfocused, and his breathing labored as he worked himself toward victory. Bofur was at his side, hand on his shoulder and whispering encouragements. At last, he forced the sausage down his gullet and even Thorin could not restrain the grimace at the grotesque picture of it. Cheers went up around them and Bilbo politely clapped along though it seemed that he knew not what for. Politely, he swallowed his last mouthful, wiped his lips, and looked around the table.

He said something then, and whatever it was stopped the celebrating dwarrow in their tracks, and stole the relieved smile from Bombur’s pale face. Even some of the serving elves widened their eyes in surprise, and Thorin nearly choked on his wine as the Hobbit smiled and reached for a platter of pastries.

He tucked into the tray happily, and Bombur paled even more before he hastily pushed away from the table and stumbled over to the edge of the veranda. Thorin did not have to look to know that he was emptying his stomach on that ostentatious elvish stone. It was just as well.

Eventually, the dinner ended, and the Company were taken through a tour of the estate and retired to spacious rooms. There were Fourteen of them, one prepared for each. They were airy and lavish, and they all hated them. As one the decision was made to scorn the rooms and dump their luggage before making for the nearby fountains to bathe.

Soon after, dripping wet, they all piled into the shared sitting room between them, thirteen dwarrow and one Hobbit and they made a mess of it before Thorin could say anything. They tore apart furniture and made themselves a fire in the low pit meant for embers and proceeded to cause general Dwarven havoc. Fiddles played and pipes blared, jigs were danced, and vases smashed.

Thorin was glad for it. His foot tapped along to the beat of it, and he crowed in laughter along with the others when Kíli and Fíli performed a skit so bawdy their mother would have his head if ever she knew.

Thorin spoke to Gandalf who suggest that they be ready to move on at first light. Suspicious of this he took some small council with Balin, attempting to prepare as best they could for departure and the approaching meeting with Elrond. It did not matter what the Wizard had planned, Thorin was not eager to share their purpose with the Lord, generous host or not.

And so he was less pleased to find himself at counsel with Elrond not long after the setting of the sun. Elrond had summoned them to an unnervingly airy terrace. Thorin had brought Balin to stand at his side and Gandalf and the Hobbit were close at hand.

Given the choice, Thorin would have left the Burglar to his wanderings. He had excused himself after the meal – some nonsense about an after supper walk to settle the food. Thorin was rather inclined to let the little man enjoy his stay here as long as possible, as enamored with it as he was. Though it grated at him immensely. The way that, even enraptured as he had been in his food and his so-called ‘salads’, he had found the time to gaze adoringly upon the gardens and the flowing architecture and the gently swaying trees. He was at ease here. More than he had been since their first meeting, since his employ began, since Thorin had first laid eyes upon him, and it was good to see.

Thorin would let him have this at least, could not be so selfish as to take this too away from him, simply because it was the halls of elves that pleased him so.

More than this though, Thorin was quite capable of separating personal feelings from business, and he could not see what benefit there was in the Hobbit being here. He had never before sat in on the planning of the Company. He had never offered his advice on the running of this quest, and Thorin did not know what he would have to offer had he tried.

What would a Hobbit know of questing? Of the Wilderland? Of Elves or Khazâd[xvi] or Maiar?

He knew how to entertain company, and cook, and sew, and make the children of the royal house smile but what else did he have to offer, here, at a Council of Lords?

Gandalf had suggested that he come and Thorin would have asked why had Elrond not agreed so readily. The Elf Lord had shown no hesitation, simply nodded and moved on as if it had made perfect sense to him to bring a home-body along to a secret meeting in the moonlight.

Thorin did not like what favor he had shown the Hobbit, despite not having spoken to him directly. It was unnerving to find himself so disquieted at only a handful of interested glances and secretive smiles. Suspicion was in his character, but this was bordering on uncalled for, even for him.

Still, it mattered little for now. The laws of hospitality meant that no harm would come to the Hobbit from Elrond or his Household so long as they remained here as guests. That would have to satisfy Thorin for now. It did not.

Elrond looked upon him expectantly and his annoyance flared at the though that he should expect anything at all of Thorin.

“Our business is no concern of Elves,” he said, coolly and careful to restrain any bite to his voice. Elf he may be, Lord Elrond was by far the least odious of his kind. It did not mean that he was to be trusted as much more than a glorified innkeeper with a penchant for books, however.

“For goodness sake, Thorin,” Tharkûn sighed, exasperated and slipping dangerously close to a Gandalf-like scolding, “show him the map.”

Elrond’s thin eyebrow rose in interest at the mention of the map and, oddly enough, the Hobbit began to roll up onto the balls of his large feet and back again in excitement. Elrond seemed to notice this and smiled lightly as if endeared by the action.

“It is the legacy of my people,” Thorin bit back, properly scathing this time because it was fact. It was the legacy of his people, and it was theirs, and there was absolutely no reason for him to share it with some wretched Elf-Lord that he knew of only from rumor. Why should he share that which had been entrusted to him to some off hand ancient? What exactly, aside from age and learning, qualified him to be entrusted with such a thing?

“It is mine to protect, as are it’s secrets,” he said, low and stalwart even as his gaze flitted between the Wizard and the Elf and, though he did not know why, to the Hobbit. He held Thorin’s gaze, viridescent eyes curious and contemplating, even as Thorin forced himself to turn back to the immortals.

“Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves!” Cried the creature in the guise of an Old Man, and the Hobbit frowned something fierce at the outburst. “Your pride will be your downfall!”

And Thorin nearly sneered at him at that; as if that were any terrible fate compared to that which was likely his due. Thorin would rather that pride be the flaw to bring him low rather than his foul and cursed greed.

“You stand in the presence of one of the few in Middle-earth who can read that map,” Tharkûn said, calmer if not less annoyed, after a few deep breaths and a scolding look from the Hobbit, “Show Lord Elrond the map.”

And Thorin did not want to. He did not, but the Wizard was near losing his temper, and Thorin would be a fool not to heed the danger in such a thing. Besides, there was some truth to his argument and though Thorin would have found another way into Erebor if he must, it was sensible to use whatever advantage he could to ease the way. And the Hobbit was giving him a truly flat look then, equal parts disbelieving and annoyed and well, Thorin did not quite know why that made him so anxious, but it did so well enough.

Reluctantly, and with a fair bit of glowering, he held out the map to the Elf Lord.

“Thorin, no,” Balin gasped at his side, dear weathered hands coming up to grasp at his arm, though they both knew that the Advisor would never truly hold Thorin away from doing what he must, even had he the strength to do so.

Elrond, gracious and pompous as he was in turns, reached for the proffered map with an air of importance, though he did incline his head in gratitude as he did so. He unfolded it slowly, carefully, with all the care of one who was experienced in the handling of things both ancient and precious.

“Erebor,” he murmured in surprise, something of sorrow in his voice that Thorin did not want to hear, “What is your interest in this map?”

And what sort of lackwit question was that? What _interest_? What interest did he have in his homeland, in the halls of his father – of his grandfather? What interest had he in the rooms in which he was birthed, the halls in which he was raised, where the laughter of his childhood soaked into the stone along with the blood of his mother and his grandmother and all of his people that he could not save?

What _interest_?

“Mainly academic,” Tharkûn answered, light and cheery as he shot a truly baleful look of warning to Thorin. It stopped Thorin even as had made to step forward in anger without realizing it.

“As you know, this sort of artifact sometimes contains hidden text,” the wizard hurried on, lest Thorin release the words that barbed his tongue, “you still read ancient dwarvish, do you not?”

Elrond’s strange elvish eyes gave no inkling to his thoughts beyond the fact that he did not believe Tharkûn; Thorin could not tell if he was offended by the blatant lie or not and it unnerved him. The fact that Elrond could read Khuzdul, although plausible considering that he had walked Arda in the days of friendship between Dwarrow and Elves, was deeply unsettling.

Theirs was a sacred language, crafted for them by Mahal Aulë and taught by him to the Seven Fathers with great care and love. It was no simple cradle-tongue; it was carefully taught to each and every khuzd[xvii] along with its great weight and sacredness. It was not bent easily to change, and it was never spoken without great care and meaning. It was perhaps, the greatest and most guarded secret of their race – rife with secrets as they were.

It was not meant for the eyes and ears of outsiders; certainly not for those of an enemy.

Heedless of Thorin’s discomfort, Elrond bent to look upon the map with disapproval writ clear on his fair face. He mused over the map for a moment, feeling it gently beneath his fingers, irritation fading into fascination like sand through a sieve.

Thorin had been intent on watching the Elf who held his map so precariously until a sharp movement caught his eyes. Turning, he found that the Hobbit had taken a step toward Elrond, nervously wringing his hands and looking for all the world as if he wanted for something. He did not seem to be aware that he had moved, and he moved no closer, but he continued to bounce impatiently upon his large feet and stare longingly after the Elf Lord who walked further toward the open air of the terrace. His eyes sparkled with wonder and desire and Thorin had not ever seen him so wanting.

Tharkûn chuckled slightly to himself, as if the sight of his small friend pining after an Elf was amusing to him.

Thorin was not amused.

Not at all.

It was one thing to give the Burglar leave to indulge in the luxuries of an Elven resting house; it was quite another to allow him to indulge in whatever misplaced fancies that he had for their host. For one thing, Elves were not trustworthy, nor were they loyal or caring. They had little thought for others and indeed cared for nothing beyond their own pleasure. They were soft handed, hedonistic people that only cared for noble things when it gave them an excuse to wage war. Though the Hobbit was infatuated with this place, with the Elves, and – disturbingly – their Lord, Thorin knew that the Elves would not care for him in turn. They would not see his wit and his dry humor, they would not admire the amber and oak in his curls, they would not hear the bells in his laughter. They would see a funny little mortal, with a pouting face and too large feet. They would scorn him for his youth and his ignorance, and they would take his wonder and throw it in his face. Though perhaps, Hobbits being similarly soft-handed and hedonistic, the Burglar would be willing to overlook cold indifference for the sake of pleasure.

Thorin found himself disgusted at the thought.

For another thing, Elves were ugly. They were stretched out, and thin, muscle scraping along their bones where it should have grown strong and proud around it. Their hair was long and thin and had no texture to speak of. It must have been prone to greasing and Thorin snorted at the thought that they must not ever have the need to oil their hair as was proper. Their cheekbones were always high, and their brows always thin. Their noses were too small, too thin, barely distinguished on their seamless faces. They had no marks of life upon them; no scars from battle, no rouge from the wind, no pock-burns from wayward ash, no sunspots that danced across their cheeks like starlight. They were perfect in a way that only crafted things ought to be and yet they did not wither as good stone did; graceful and all the more powerful for the wear of time upon it. They did not possess voices of thundering forges or of tinkling bells; but instead spoke in the tongue of bubbling brooks and laughing wind. They were, all of them, perfectly porcelain, or ocher, or ebony; no blemish or variation on their own skin, as if it had been painted upon them, one color chosen at random and shadow and highlight judiciously applied with no thought to spider veins or lines of laughter or the flush of joy.

They were beauty in the strict form of ancient prose and formal geometry. Even their variation was artless and graceful, perfect and never incomplete so that it all blended seamlessly into one long eternity of starlight. There was no change in them, none that he could find. There was no life in them as there was in good stone and fertile earth. They stood among trees and longed for starlight, walked among the other Kindred and yearned for an isle barren of all but their own. There was no joy in them as there was in gold flecked obsidian, or mithril accented with sapphire. With the merging of two things of beauty where before there had only been one. They stood alone and untouched and scorned any who would dare try to approach.

Thorin wished that the Hobbit would not try.

A gasp from Elrond forced his attention back to him, and Thorin carefully unclenched his fists and his jaw, aching from the grinding he had not known that he had done.

“Cirth ithil,”[xviii] he murmured to himself, as if he did not believe it, and Thorin made himself to ignore the delighted gasp that escaped the Burglar.

“Moon-runes? Of course,” Tharkûn grumbled as though to himself, before he turned swiftly to the Hobbit in a poorly disguised rush, “and easy thing to miss.”

And what was it about him that made even the Wizard seek his approval, his awe? What made this small creature of comfort and growth so enticing to Lords as high as these?

“In this case, that is true,” Elrond allowed, a small indulgent smile coming to him distractedly as he ran his fingers over the map once more.

“What are Moon-runes?” The Hobbit asked, another step forward, another step too close, and Thorin took a step himself without meaning to.

Elrond looked up then from the map, his gaze falling to the Hobbit and Thorin did not like the pleased smile that came over him at the sight of his eagerness.

“They are rune-letters that cannot be read by simple sight alone,” Elrond explained, map carefully held but otherwise forgotten in his attention upon the Hobbit, “they can only be read by the light of the moon – or, if the author was a particularly cunning sort, only by the light of a moon of the very same shape and season by which they were written.”

The Hobbit’s eyes sparkled in verdescent pleasure at this; whether it was the words or the Lord’s attentions which pleased him Thorin did not know but he did not care in either case. Whatever delighted the Hobbit was no concern of his until it effected the Quest or the Company.

He was quite capable of separating his personal feelings from his business.

“The dwarves invented them,” Elrond continued, voice soft and fond as if that meant something more to him than it did to them, and his eyes flickered briefly to Thorin then, “and wrote them with silver pens, inked with ithilden[xix] and starlight; bound with the cunning magic of their people, unparalleled in such arts in those days.”

The Hobbit seemed enraptured with this, a dreamy sigh escaping him at the sound and Thorin allowed himself the moment to think it was awe at his kin’s skill that moved him so.

“What do they say?” Thorin asked and was annoyed to hear Tharkûn speak the same. He wanted to be done with this council; to have his answers and be well away from effusive Elf Lords and Moon-eyed Hobbits. He would like to be well away from meddling daft Wizards just as much.

“These runes were written on a Midsummer’s Eve by the light of a crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago,” Elrond contemplated the map, eyes straying back to the Hobbit indulgently and Thorin did not doubt that he drew out the answer for his benefit alone, “it seems that you were meant to come to Rivendell.”

And the Hobbit’s eyes sparkled even brighter at that and the Elf’s near-fond smile widened and Thorin did not know if he was going to break something or be ill.

Perhaps both, though he had naught any reason to do either.

At last the Elf grew bored of staring into the Hobbits eyes – and Thorin did not know how, not when they shone with such awe and for him alone, Thorin could not fathom ever being able to tear himself away from such a trap were it sprung on him – and Thorin nearly sneered at the sight of it. Of course, the Elf would move on when he had his fill. Of course, such wonder held little interest to him except to stroke his ego.

Of course, of course, and still it stung at him and something weighed heavy in his throat.

“Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield,” Elrond said grandly, gaze cooling rapidly as it swung over to him, and a voice that sounded vaguely like Dís chided him to get his wits about him, “the same moon shines upon us this very night.”

Elrond moved further into the moonlight, great flowing robes folding and dragging after him like leaves in the breeze and he gestured for them to follow. He made for an archway in the wings of the terrace and the Hobbit followed in his wake without a moment’s hesitation. Thorin, left with Balin brooding at his side, and the Wizard gazing him at expectantly had no choice but to follow.

They ended their small journey on another terrace, though this one was much lovelier than the last. Here, the stone of Imladris’ falls curved gently over their heads, flowing carvings ancient and cared for, and the moonlight filtered through the prism of the roaring water as it fell. No elvish piping filled the air, no caterwauling of their haunting songs, and all was left to the sound of water and stone. At the end of the cliff upon which they stood, curtained by the falls, stood a crystalline table, rough hewn but intentionally so – carved for love of the geometry inherent in the crystal, unblemished by the imposing visions of a less wise craftsman.

This was a dwarven table, built for the viewing of moon-runes. The ancient Khazâd had crafted their clever karuth nûlukh[xx] and so too they had built devices to better admire them by; crystal viewing tables and intricate systems of polished mirrors to bring the moonlight into the heart of their mountains. Thorin had heard of such things, had been brought up on the wonder of them – fairy stories of wonders long lost to time and dragons and war.

And now here they were, half of a history languishing in the home of a traitor and one so ungrateful of the beauty in these gifts.

Elrond laid the map upon the table and smoothed it across with one pale hand. The clouds parted then, and the falls warped and bent the moonlight just as those fabled mirror systems of old. Inspired Khazâd engineering; an understanding of the bending of light, of the movement of the stars, of the shattering of crystal and the light upon it. Of the mithril made ink and the magic in those runes.

“Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks,” Elrond spoke, and Thorin tore his eyes from the art of his people and looked to the Elf to which it had been gifted, “and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the keyhole.”

Durin, Durin, first of his name and first of his race. Father of the fathers of the eldest race of Khazâd, the Longbeards, Durin’s Folk. Thorin’s folk. First of his line and greatest of them all. He who died and yet was undying, who looked upon the Seven Fallen Stars in the lake Mirrormere and dreamt the Dwarrowdelf[xxi] into existence in that very moment.

He who’s sons had seen each hopeful rising of a new year with his name upon their lips, and so had the occasion come to be Durin’s Day alone.

“Durin’s Day?” Asked the Hobbit, and he was there, leaning up on his over large toes to better see the map, the runes as they glowed silver in the light of the moon, and he was taken with them, with the cleverness of their script and the beauty of their making. He adored them, Thorin could see, could read it in the shimmer of his eyes, and the flush of his golden apple cheeks. The breathless wonder in his voice and the weight that he leant heavily upon the viewing table.

The Hobbit adored these clever dwarvish tricks, and the map given to Thorin by his father, the craft and wisdom in ancient knowledge and skill. He adored the map – he adored maps.

Were there not maps pinned carefully upon his study wall? Had there not been framed maps with crumbling edges sat above his heavy oak writing desk? Thorin had looked into his study idly, seen the walls lined with books, the large map crossed with pins and lined in varying colors that seemed to mark out routes of the Shire in detail.

Hadn’t the Hobbit loved maps all this time? Loved clever tricks and careful knowledge?

Thorin should have known that, should have recognized his ardor for the love of knowledge and not sought for desire of another where there was none.

The Hobbit loved Thorin’s map, not the Elf that held it.

Thorin could have laughed himself sick at his own foolishness, if it didn’t burn hot and shameful in his throat.

“The dwarven New Year,” Gandalf answered him, and Thorin should have done it, Thorin should be the one to tell him all about Durin and his people if he were to hear it, not some Wizard that could not even be trusted to protect him.

“When the last moon of autumn and the first sun of winter appear in the sky together,” Thorin said, and the Hobbit turned to look at him, green eyes open and eager and Thorin hurried to continue, “it is a time of great joy and much feasting. Alas, it passes our skill in these days to guess when such a time will come again.”

And it hurt to think that so much of their knowledge had passed into shadow, lost in the Orc Wars and the Desolation of Dragons. Time after time they had been chased from their homes, and it had been so much more than treasure and beds that they had lost. Loves and lives and skills; these things that would have impressed Hobbits if only Thorin had any left to share.

“That remains to be seen,” Gandalf said, mischief in eyes that told Thorin all that he needed to hear. At last, Durin’s Day approached, and the way would be clear within the year. At last, he would find his way home.

“This is ill news,” Balin spoke, and Thorin had nearly forgotten that he was at his side, bearing witness to his foolishness and his loose tongue, “summer is passing; Durin’s day will soon be upon us.”

“We still have time,” Thorin argued, after all it was only yet June and they were already nearly out from the edges of Eriador; if they made good time and were especially careful, it could be done.

“Time?” The Hobbit asked, and he leant slightly back and away from the table, though he glanced at the map mournfully, “Time for what?”

“To find the entrance,” Balin said, and his old eyes were eager, and Thorin recalled that Balin was not as old as he seemed – or perhaps it was just that Durin’s line aged much too slowly, even for dwarrow, and Balin’s royal blood was thinner than his, “we must be standing in exactly the right place, at precisely the right time – then, and only then, can the door be opened.”

“So, this is your purpose?” Spoke Elrond, voice sharp and it rent the giddy anticipation that had taken them, wiping the tremulous smile from the Hobbit’s face and bringing a curtain of coldness to shutter Balin’s watery delight.

“You will enter that mountain?” He asked and Thorin noted that he had said ‘will’ and not ‘want to’ or any such thing; Elrond did not doubt that they could do it, and this came as a surprise more than the cold and wary look that came over the Elf.

“What of it?” Thorin asked, cold and calculating and he moved to finger along the haft of his throwing axe where it sat on his belt.

Elrond eyed him blandly, as if he saw the threat and was neither intimidated nor impressed, though he did look to the Hobbit as he moved carefully closer to Thorin’s side. His ancient gaze seemed curious for a moment, before he turned to look upon Tharkûn.

“There are some who would not deem it wise.” He said, inclining his head in a telling gesture and Thorin could not read it even painfully obvious as it was – uncharacteristically so for an Elf.

“What do you mean?” Asked Tharkûn sounding for all the world as if he knew exactly what Elrond meant and wanted him to prove otherwise.

Elrond’s face steeled over into a look of grim resignation and Thorin blinked at the severity of it, out of place here, in his own halls, clad in his silken dinner robes.

“You are not the only guardian to stand watch over Middle-Earth,” he said, gravely and with a heavy gaze that spoke of many things, old things, and hard things.

The wizard made a strange groaning sigh of a sound and moved to leave the terrace briskly, Elrond at his heels, following the frenzied Wizard that led him through his own halls.

Elrond waved a hand and a servant came from the shadows to lead them through a separate door, eyes trailing the two nervously.

The three of them were led back to the rest of the Company and Thorin took some private pleasure in the look of horror upon the elf’s face when he looked briefly through the open door after them.

Balin made his way to sit by Dori and Óin, the calmer of the bunch – though only because Óin was too deaf these days to take much insult from anything. Thorin thought that perhaps he had too much excitement this night; Orcs and Elves and not-Kings who never listened to a word he said.

Near all of the Company had stripped to their under-suits and boots and already bed rolls had been laid out, though none looked quite ready to use them. Indeed, much chatter abounded, and some were attempting to roast pilfered greens over their ill-wrought fire. Even Bombur, mad man he was, attempted to replenish his wasted supper where he sat upon a bench with suspiciously rough-hewn legs. Thorin did not doubt it had fallen to their axes as fire fodder.

Fíli and Kíli lounged about chatting with Ori, picking apart his knitting subtly even as he worked away on it, never the wiser.

And still, Thorin was distracted by the sight of the Hobbit wandering away into the cold of the night. Willing as he had been to let the fool wander about in the daylight when the elves knew nothing of their plans, things had changed, and they would do better to stay together.

He made to follow him, delayed only by Dwalin’s questioning blank stare, and one easily subdued with a nudge of his head toward the path that the Hobbit had just left by. Dwalin raised his brow slightly and an unnervingly wolfish grin spread over his face before he made a shooing motion in the same direction. Perturbed, Thorin ignored it and took his leave.

When he found the Hobbit, it was a fair distance away, up a flight of stairs and leaning solemnly on the rails of a terrace. In the dark of the night with only the light of the silver moon to wash his curls a muted brown, he looked unbearably small. Thorin remembered then, how miserable he had looked in the rain, how frightened he had seemed with Thorin pushing him steadily faster than his legs could carry him, how pale he had gone at what he thought to be the howling of wolves. Would he only ever find misery on this journey? Would that the boys were enough to bring him joy to counter it, but Thorin feared that it was not enough. That it would never be enough.

“Of course, I was going to tell you,” came Gandalf’s voice from below, and the Hobbit immediately turned to find his friend, “I was only waiting for the chance. And really, I think you can trust that I know what I’m doing.”

The Wizard sounded flustered and caught-out in a way that he nearly never was.

“Do you?” And that was Elrond, answering him, wasn’t it? He sounded accusing and exasperated, and Thorin wondered briefly exactly how long he had suffered the Wizard’s acquaintance. “That dragon has slept for sixty years. What would happen if your plan should fail, if you wake the beast?”

“But if we succeed!” Cried Tharkûn, righteous in his cause, “If the dwarves take back the mountain, our defenses in the East will be strengthened.”

And Thorin knew that that was his aim, that his gaze was cast ever forward to armies and battles and never to the simple plight of a homeless people.

“It is a dangerous move, Gandalf,” cautioned Elrond, low and stern, as if to force the Wizard to listen.

“It is also dangerous to do nothing,” he argued, equally as wise and equally as stubborn, “oh, come now, the throne of Erebor is Thorin’s birthright, what is it you fear?”

And here the Hobbit turned to face him as if he knew that he was there all along, even if he pretended to be startled to find him. Thorin, caught but too intent on the conversation below to continue with his original plan to chastise the man, gave him a small nod of acknowledgement. The Hobbit looked uncomfortable, likely embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping, but hesitantly turned back to the two immortals.

“Have you forgotten,” Elrond asked, angry now, as though the mere thought was an insult, “a strain of madness runs deep in that family.”

And Thorin drew back at that, at the venom and grief mingled in his voice, at the reminder of that which Thorin could not forgot, of that which he feared. The Hobbit shifted then, weight moving nervously from foot to foot even as he turned to the side in some aborted sigh or attempt to hide.

“His Grandfather lost his mind,” and where was Elrond then, “his Father succumbed to the same sickness,” at the loss of thousands – his father and his youngest son among them, “can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

No.

No he could not. He could not, he could not, and it was a hot burning shame that he could not, that he was not strong enough to do so, that he knew his own heart might yet be too weak.

Silence reigned for a moment too long, and Thorin had to turn away from them. From the Elf that knew his shame and doubted him, from the wizard who could not defend him from it, from the hobbit who would not look at him the same.

“Gandalf, these decisions do not rest with us alone,” Elrond said, calmer now, if no less scolding, “it is not up to you or me to redraw the map of Middle-Earth.”

“With or without our help these dwarves will march on the mountain.” Tharkûn said, and this was true. Thorin would go, had no choice but to go, even if it was madness that awaited him there. “They’re determined to reclaim they’re homeland.” And he sounded almost proud at that, as if that meant something to him, a spirit with no home on this earthly plane, with no place to call his own.

Thorin could hear nothing else, they’re voices gone too far for him to discern, though the Hobbit still seemed intent upon their backs. Whether he could hear so well or was simply trying to avoid Thorin’s presence, he did not know.

Regardless, a moment later, the Hobbit ran out of distractions and turned to face him at last. Thorin did not look to his face, then, did not want to see whatever expression he wore – pity or disgust or fear. Thorin did not want it, did not want to see it, wanted only trust and quiet awe or nothing at all as had been his due for these last three months.

Large wooly feet shuffled about awkwardly in his periphery and Thorin was wryly amused at what a guileless creature he was too show nervousness to a mad man so armed.

“So,” he began slowly, bell voice reedy with nerves and somewhat rough from what must be the aftereffects of the day’s earlier exertion, “we’ll be off in the morning, shall we?”

Thorin looked up then, not at all sure what the Hobbit meant by that beyond the obvious. Was he going to pretend that he had heard nothing? That none of those accusations cast doubt in his mind? Thorin could not bear pity or fear but he would not cower from such a conversation where it was due.

“Ah, only that I’d heard as much from the others and, well, I can’t imagine you’ll want to take breakfast with Lord Elrond after all that nonsense – terribly awkward, that, I should think,” he babbled, and he was not looking at Thorin, hands pulling at his jacket lapels nervously, green eyes skittering across elvish stone.

“Nonsense?” Thorin asked quietly, warningly.

The curse of his line, the sins of his fathers, nonsense? The Hobbit had no idea of what he spoke, no comprehension of the shame and the fear of it, and here he was calling it all nonsense. It was moments like these when he wondered why they ever brought such an ignorant, air-headed, clumsy thing along with them.

“Oh, yes, well,” he said, and he laughed nervously, nothing at all like when he laughed with the others or the Wizard, “we’ve all got some family secrets, haven’t we? It’s not proper of him to go about airing someone else’s dirty laundry like that, not at all. Who hasn’t got a relative who’s gone a bit odd? Certainly, I’ve enough of them, myself. No shame in that. No shame in someone you love being sick, not that I can see, anyway.”

And his hands flew from his jacket to his belt and back again, as if he did not know what to do with them, even as his mouth seemed to run away without him. Thorin did not have any idea what such a thing had to do with laundry and did not care to figure it out. And it was not the same, not at all, some bumpkin farmer going cracked in his old age to the detriment of only his crop and his pigs. But still, it was something, an attempt, and it did not make Thorin less hurt, it did not soothe the raw wound of it, but it did make him less angry.

The Hobbit was trying, even when Thorin had done nothing to deserve the effort.

Feeling a trifle undeserving, he thought to finally apologize for his words all those nights ago. He ought to at least try, even if there was no benefit in it except an easier time travelling with the Hobbit.

Reaching out, he made to clap the Hobbit’s shoulder as he would do with any member of the Company, a gesture of comradery and some small measure of understanding. He had hardly even touched him when the Hobbit let out a pained gasp and flinched away with a start.

Wrenching his hand back as if burned, Thorin could do nothing but stare at the Burglar in barely controlled surprise and slowly rising embarrassment. He ought to have known better. He shouldn’t have made to touch him like that; he hardly knew him, no longer trusted him, certainly did not even like him. He did not even know if Hobbits indulged in such casual touching, he did not know if they only welcomed it between close friends or family, he did not, he did not –

“Oh no, I’m – oh, I’m sorry, Thorin,” he said, stepping closer to him once more, green eyes watery with pain and regret, “it’s just that I’m a bit bruised from this morning, is all. I didn’t mean to be so rude about it, forgive me.”

Bruised? Why would he be bruised?

From the Troll’s rough handling, perhaps, tugging at his joints and swelling them painfully. But no, he had moved well enough for the next few hours, long enough for such bruising to develop. The Orc hunt, then. But when? Thorin had not let him – any of them – out of his sight. He had not fallen, not bumped too harshly into the stone, had not done anything to jostle his shoulder that Thorin could think of.

Thorin would have known if he had, he had kept an eye on him all the while, Mahal wept, he’d had his hands on him for half the damned chase –

A memory then, of heavy breathing and sweaty tawny curls, the sight of a Warg’s hind as it disappeared around a boulder, a deep breath, his hand rough on a ragged red coat, the soft give of flesh beneath it and the gasp that followed even as he barked and order to move. He had thought the gasp one of surprise, one of fear – now he thought himself a fool for not seeing that it had been one of pain.

“Your shoulder,” he said, quietly, disbelieving, even as the Hobbit nodded awkwardly, “your left.”

And the Hobbit looked away awkwardly and nodded again and Thorin took a hasty step back.

He was a fool and a boor. He ought to have known better, he ought to have been more careful than that. He knew that the Hobbit was small and fragile, he knew that. Why hadn’t he been more careful? He had gone and damaged their burglar, he’d handled him like a sack of coal, tossed him about without a care. Roughhousing was one thing and a purposeful brawl another, but to harm someone weaker than you, to lay a harmful touch upon someone unprompted.

To abuse a person who was under your care-

The shame of it nearly burnt him alive.

“Forgive me,” he said, hastily and clipped, and not at all sure what to do with himself, “I did not- I would- I should not have handled you so roughly, it was careless of me, my apologies, Master Baggins. It will not happen again. I swear it.”

And the Hobbit simply blinked up at him with his watery green eyes and Thorin would not blame him if he did not accept such an apology, poultry as it was for such an offense.

Under dwarven law he’d have right to take Thorin’s hand for such a thing.

The same hand that was no doubt marked upon his back.

By Mahal, Thorin might as well have walked up behind Bofur and stabbed him through the side unannounced.

Thorin could not help but glance at Baggins’ shoulder anxiously, eager to be away from those weepy eyes – his fault, his fault. Did he have trouble moving it? How badly had it bruised? Was it a dark black-blue or an ugly mottled yellow? Could one tell that it was dwarvish hands that had hurt him so?

Thorin thought wildly that he ought to offer Baggins his lawful right to retribution – thought that had it been anyone else who had laid hands on him like that, Thorin himself would sever their hand from them.

It would not have been such a grievous matter if it were a fellow khuzd whom he had harmed – it would not have become such a painful injury. Perhaps some soreness, some minor redness, a bit of sting. But the way that Baggins flinched, the way that Thorin could see that he favored that side, now that he was looking, was telling enough of how badly it must have been. Admittedly, Thorin was upset both at his own blunder and at the sinking realization of just how fragile their Burglar was.

If Thorin’s own hands could bring about such pain in a moment of inattention what then of the perils which they were yet to face? What, then, of treacherous Mountain passes and stray Orcs and dangers yet unnamed? They did not come lightly armed and there was a reason for that.

What, then, of a Dragon?

If Thorin had thought the Hobbit ill-suited before, now he thought him certain to perish.

“Oh, no, that’s- that’s quite alright, Thorin, I’m not upset,” he said, and he laughed again, more genuine this time, bemused, even, “it was an accident, I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

And his face broke into a genuine little smile then, exasperated and a little fond, and Thorin did not understand why, not when his eyes were still moist from tears of pain. How was he so sure that Thorin hadn’t meant to do it? Surely, he’d shown him nothing but disregard and contempt all this time.

“Honestly, be reasonable,” he said, rolling his eyes and tossing his curly head, hand coming to rest on his hips imperiously, “if I pitched a fit every time I bumped into or tripped over something, I’d never get anything done! I’m not ignorant to the fact that I’m a klutz, I’ll have you know.”

“Every time you tripped?” Thorin asked, a bit dumbly, but well, he was still rather upset, “You mean to say that you are you wounded so easily?”

He himself had seen the Hobbit trip over a stray branch, or rock, or bush nearly as often as he’d seen him daydreaming – which was to say, alarmingly often and quite possibly those two things might be related to one another.

The Hobbit did something strange with his face, although not unpleasant. The whole thing nearly screwed up into a pout but not quite, brow still quite domineering, and mouth stern, even as his nose twitched irritably.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he said, haughty and almost insulted, though not quite, “oh, by the Lady, look, would you?”

And he bent down and began to roll up his already much too short pantleg, and Thorin looked away quickly.

Hobbits had very different customs, he reminded himself, very different, and quite different notions of modesty too. While it seemed that they did not engage in any form of public nudity, as was commonplace among Khazâd, they seemed to see no fault in stripping themselves slowly in the company of but one other. Too dwarrow, for whom nudity itself was common, it was the act of removing clothing, the show of it that was risqué.

The Hobbit cleared his throat expectantly and Thorin scowled before he steeled himself to look back at whatever indecency the little man would subject him to.

And maybe he would have scolded the Hobbit, would have demanded an apology for such a presumption, but he was brought up short by the sight of golden-tanned legs, fuzzy with amber locks to the ankle, and still lightly furred further up, marred by a cacophony of scrapes and bruises.

Not a sign of it showed from the ankle down, even constantly bear as they were, and Thorin wondered at the fact that they were not as mottled as the rest of his shin.

“You, see?” The Hobbit said, tearing Thorin’s shocked gaze up to his wry little smile, “Hardly anything new, Your Highness.”

And he said the title like a jest, like he was teasing, and why would he do that? Hadn’t Thorin been cruel? Hadn’t Thorin taken him from his home, and pushed him through hardship and injury, hurt him with his ignorance and his own hand?

“You,” Thorin said, because he had to say something, he had too but he did not know what to say, “you did not say anything.”

And that was true, he hadn’t. He had suffered through such things, things that would not even bruise one of their babes but caused his blood vessels to burst and pain to blossom across his flesh. He had suffered and he had carried on and he had not said a word.

Did Gandalf know? Did the Ur’s? Fíli? Kíli? Surely, he had said something, he was not the type to suffer such discomfort. He was too spoilt for that, too soft.

“Say something?” He repeated, incredulous, straightening with a wince and shaking out his leg to fix his trousers, “Say what? ‘Oh, poor me, I banged my shin off of a log again, one of you will have to carry me, so sorry for the inconvenience.’ I think not, thank you.”

He huffed and made to roll his shoulder’s back proudly but winced and aborted the motion immediately.

Thorin took a step closer at the pained hiss that escaped him but stopped himself short.

“You should have said something,” Thorin said, and yes he should have, but Thorin could not say that he would have not scorned him for doing so had he not seen the bruises himself, “Óin will have some salve to ease the pain and speed the healing.”

The Hobbit gazed back at him quietly for a moment, eyes intelligent and thoughtful and Thorin wondered that he ever called him a fool, that he was ever so blind as to do that, even if he was fool enough to try so desperately to earn some small respect for himself.

“Alright,” he conceded at last, and his voice was soft, soft as it had been in that wretched cave, when last he’d agreed to Thorin’s suggestion, “alright, I’ll have him look at them tonight. Better to get something done for it now than when we are once again on the road.”

“And your shoulder,” Thorin insisted, he needed to be sure that at least that would be tended to.

He had the strange notion that he ought to tend to it himself.

“Yes, yes, my blasted shoulder,” Baggins replied with a good-natured chuckle, and Thorin wondered at the fact that he was finally hearing that long denied laughter for himself.

He nodded at him solemnly and motioned for him to head back inside and, after an annoyed raise of the brow and a snort, he began to make his toddling way down the steps. They entered the shared room to a cacophony of snoring and a leering look from Dwalin and did not bother to say goodnight before bedding down in their respective places.

Thorin lay and counted his Company, and stared after his nephews, and if he glanced toward a Hobbit as he whispered to their Healer, that was just as well.

Things were not going well, not by a long shot, but Thorin thought that they were at least going better.

At least he was a step closer to home than he had been the day before.

* * *

[i] The feeling of pride and devotion one feels for their Family/Clan.

[ii] Khuzdul: ‘Follow!’

[iii] Khuzdul: ‘Arms!’ / ‘Weapons!’

[iv] Khuzdul: Grandfather (i.e. Thrór)

[v] Khuzdul: Father (i.e. Thrain)

[vi] Khuzdul: ‘Uncle’

[vii] Khuzdul: ‘little brother’

[viii] Khuzdul: Dwarrow

[ix] Aka Nogrod, one of the twin dwarven cities or Ered Luin which were lost in the War of Wrath in the first age. It was the stronghold of the Broadbeam and Firebeard Clans, home to the greatest craftsman of all Dwarrow, and was decimated after a falling out with their one-time friends the Elves of Menegroth. They slew the Elven-king and sacked his city but were nearly decimated in the ensuing war. The hatred between the races grew so strong that they were hunted from then on by their once friends.

[x] Aka Belegost, sister-city to Nogrod. It was the dwarven kingdom with the strongest ties to elves of the region- indeed they had carved the very halls of Menegroth. They had warned against making war with the elves and had refused to go to war alongside their Nogrod kin. Regardless, the trust between the races was irreparably broken and they suffered long years of hatred between them until Belegost at last fell in the War of Wrath. The survivors fled to Khazâd-dûm though the lands surrounding the Blue Mountains were still populated by pockets of dwarrow for years to come.

[xi] Khuzdul: “To arms!”

[xii] Sindarin: ‘friend’

[xiii] Follohides were partial to the elves of the greenwood, being the northernmost clan of Hobbits. They were hunters and fairer and thinner than their southern cousins. They were also, perhaps through this association, the most learned of Hobbits.

[xiv] Stoor Hobbits were the southern most clan. They were waterfolk, and heartier than the other Hobbits. They grew beards occasionally and were fond of Dwarves. It is this fondness that Elrond alludes too.

[xv] As a surprise to no one, the Hobbits have their own dialect of Westron and even subdialects there of depending on the ratio of Stoor-to-Fallohide-to-Harfoot of the area. Old Marish rather more resembles Old Welsh while Bucklandish has a more Celtic influence and Breelandish is nearly Brythonic. Also naming conventions vary between the three with the high-classes having Elvish or Rohirric derived given names and the middle class having nonsense names (i.e. Bungo or Drogo) and what not. Many lower class Hobbits had archaic names that were not always flattering – Samwise means ‘unwise’ for one. Hobbit women are usually named for flowers, with high class women being named for exotic plants (i.e. Belladonna) or on occasion jewels (i.e. Adamanta or Pearl).

[xvi] Khuzdul: ‘dwarrow’

[xvii] Khuzdul: ‘dwarf’

[xviii] Sindarin: ‘runes of the moon’

[xix] A substance made from mithril that reflected only the light of the moon and stars; it was used to craft the Doors of Durin and was known to be used by Elves and Dwarrow both.

[xx] Khuzdul: Cirth of the moon

[xxi] Aka Khazâd-dûm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is not very good at convincing himself not to take care of people, must be a side effect of leadership. Also wow, good for him, he's starting to use Bilbo's name, even if it is only his last name.  
And excuse you, sir, Bilbo has lived his whole life as a klutz and he's very used to it by now, thank you very much.  
Also, Dwalin is that friend and I am so sorry about it.  
And one more time for hard-headed Kings in the back, Bilbo does not have the hots for Elrond, please and thank you.  
I appreciate all of your comments and kudos, this chapter was a bit difficult to churn out but you all kept me motivated!


	6. Onward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flirting abounds, Bilbo realizes some things, and decides that nothing really changes, regardless.

Bilbo was starving.

There was no polite way to put it really. The simple fact was that he had never been so hungry in all of his adult life.

(The hunger he had faced as a tween, well, that was a low he hoped that he would never quite reach again.)

So, when their gracious host had led them to a banquet hall, and a low table laden with breads and greens and drink, well.

He was only a Hobbit, after all.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he hadn’t looked up from the table until he was several mouthfuls in; past rolls and water and ale and reaching still for the salads next. He had begun to liberally drizzle some elvish vinaigrette over the much-needed greens when he realized that something was amiss. A silence had enveloped the table, only the ambient sounds of the Valley and the whispering chatter of elves to fill the air.

The dwarrow were quiet, and in his limited experience, dwarrow by and large were hardly ever quiet. Nothing good could come from it, he was sure, though he was reluctant to tear himself away from his meal to bother with them. But he had always a curious Hobbit, and he could not bear not knowing what it was that had silenced the raucous quarrel of dwarrow after months of ceaseless chatter.

Looking up, he found himself scrutinized by twelve pairs of flinty eyes, all of them bewildered - some few even suspicious.

“Is something wrong?” He asked awkwardly, forcing himself to keep his attention on them and not the crispness of the greens on his plate.

Sweet Lady, but he was hungry. When was the last time he’d had a salad? A vegetable? A real proper vegetable, not just some herb crushed and sparsely strewn through a stew. Longer still since he’d eaten a fruit. He’d been picking whatever fruits and wild berries he could find on the road, but still it was only early summer yet and the slowly creeping midsummer would yield little in the way of wild fruit until autumn. Certainly, none that were suitable for travel.

Bombur had made some small effort at expanding the menu on his behalf, he knew. More potatoes, more tubers, but still too few to suffice, too few to fill. Dwarrow had no need for these things it seemed, no desire for more than meat and broth and a few root vegetables to fill it out. They did not tremble for lack of sugars, they did not pale for lack of nutrition, not as he did.

He had not said anything about it to them. He did not want to be a burden any more than he already was, was not sure that they would understand his grievance, was not sure that he wanted them too. They already thought him weak, surely thought him dull and unsuited for both questing and companionship. He would not give them cause to disparage him for things that he could not help, for what was natural to him.

(He had quite enough of that back home, and he did not want it here.)

“Laddie,” Bofur murmured cautiously, “I know you’ve ‘ad a tirin’ day an’ all, but you ought to open your eyes when dishin’ food. Else your liable to be grabbin’ at the wrong thing, like so. Here, let’s get you some proper stuff to fill your stomach.” He moved closer to Bilbo, and with a surge of panic, he realized that the dwarf was trying to take his plate away from him.

He reached out, quick as an adder, and grasped Bofur’s arm perhaps a bit harder than necessary. Startled brown eyes met his questioningly and Bilbo blinked in surprise at himself. He had not thought that he would have that much spirit left in him after the exhaustion of the day.

“Ah, oh, very sorry,” he said, quickly releasing his friend and smoothing down his tattered sleeve, “but please don’t grab for my plate like that - it’s terribly rude, you know.” He couldn’t help but sound cross when he said it, the sheer audacity of someone trying to steal a whole plate of food from under his nose raising his hobbitish hackles.

The nerve! As if he was a fauntling attempting to clean out his grandfather’s larder.

(A feat that he had managed twice in his life, only once with true success. The Great Smial had the largest larder in the whole of the Shire and to say that the task had been nigh impossible was not an exaggeration.

The first time he had undertaken the challenge he had been somewhere past twelve years old and determined to cause havoc. He had managed it, with the help of some bold cousins, but had run so fiercely from his enraged caretakers afterwards that he had expelled the lot of it all over the front stoop. He had gotten a good hiding for that.

Not so much for the stealing of the food, but for the wasting of it. A terribly shameful thing for Hobbits, that.

He had managed it again, some years later, to a resounding success and none the wiser until they’d gone to fetch breakfast the next morning.

But those were plentiful years, and Bilbo had been too young and too spoiled to understand the fault in such waste.)

“But Bilbo,” Bofur began, genuine confusion crossing his face as the rest of the dwarrow murmured suspiciously amongst themselves.

Bilbo liked Bofur, he really did, but he certainly did not like him well enough to let him eat off of his own plate.

“If you want some salad,” he interrupted, quite done with whatever pleading the dwarf was about to attempt, “there’s an entire platter down the table. I’m sure that Dori would be good enough to pass it over if you only asked.” He could not for the life of him imagine why Bofur would look so bewildered by Bilbo refusing to share his well-earned meal, but he decided that it mattered little.

Hobbits did not share their food, as a rule. Certainly not when they were particularly hungry. Most assuredly not with anyone that was not family.

Selling crops and gifting covered plates was one thing, hosting tea and dinner another, but to steal a Hobbit’s plate?

A few good blood feuds had been had over the ordeal of it; ten generations of mistrust and ill-will lobbed across Hobbiton. The Proudfoot and Hornblower families could not be invited to the same party without a brawl erupting for so long that when Primrose Hornblower eventually married Loti Proudfoot the entire wedding reception consisted of vaguely confused in-laws attempting to figure out what to do with their mugs if they could no longer smash them into each other’s faces.

Still, it would do little to explain such a thing to them, he knew. He was hungry and he would not suffer to be delayed any longer. He huffed grumpily and set to digging into his salad at last when a baffled cackle interrupted him.

“You mean to eat the damned things?” Cried Nori, incredulous but somehow delighted all the same, and Bilbo would have been offended if it hadn’t been for his surprise at being addressed by him at all.

Nori, more than his brothers, seemed to hold some marginal distaste for Bilbo. While all of the Ri brothers seemed to be pleasant if distant dwarrow, Nori especially kept his own company. That is not to say that he was not a jolly dwarf, he was, very much so. Quick with song and joke, and ever goading on any ill-advised notion that he could sniff out. And Bilbo would be lying if he said that he hadn’t noticed that it was more than himself that he had been avoiding.

Nori seemed to dodge any direct conversation with the Royals and those close to them. He made no attempt to be subtle about it, a shame considering that he was the only dwarf out of the lot with any sense for stealth. Even if he was marginally louder than a stumbling toddler climbing his mother’s china hutch.

He ducked his head anytime there was even a slight chance of his eyes meeting those of Thorin, Fíli, or Kíli. It was something other than deference, Bilbo knew, something other than mere respect for their sovereignty.

For that matter he would not speak to Glóin, Óin, or Balin unless spoken to, and if ever Dwalin entered a conversation he would excuse himself abruptly and more than once had left the room. The former had seemed to be the same treatment as the royal family had gotten but when it came to Dwalin, well, that smelled of something personal, indeed.

Oh, but did not all of those dwarrow share a suffix? Could they too be part of the Royal line? Certainly, their weapons were finer than those of the other Dwarrow of the company, and certainly there seemed to be some old familiarity there. Exactly how large was this Royal House of theirs? And how then did that align with the matter of Fíli and Kíli who’s names did not match the pattern at all?

Bilbo was unused to not knowing these things, unfamiliar with sitting at a table and not being able to easily recall the intricate web of relationships that surrounded him. He had never truly been among strangers before. In the Shire everyone knew who everyone else was, even if they had never met. Certainly, a stranger was hardly a stranger at all when you knew most all of their family before ever meeting them.

(He’d always loathed meeting ‘new’ Hobbits for that fact – everyone already having their own ideas about him before they’d ever even seen his face.

For the first time in his life he had the chance to truly determine how others saw him, how they thought of him, who Bilbo Baggins was to them, to truly decide the kind of Hobbit that he would be.

He hardly knew what to do with the excitement the thought brought him.)

“Are Hobbit’s prone to an herbivorous diet?” Asked Ori softly, refocusing Bilbo’s meandering thoughts, though the young dwarrow blushed and looked down quickly as if he had not meant to speak at all. He was, to Bilbo’s surprise and delight, a very well-spoken dwarf with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. By his side Bilbo heard Kíli repeat the word questioningly to himself, and he tried very hard not to wince at his ignorance.

He would have to find him a dictionary, eventually.

“Not especially,” Bilbo answered, confused but deciding that it would be much easier to answer their questions and eat in between than to continue trying to shut out conversation entirely, “at least I had not thought so until I came to travel with all of you, who seem to want nothing at all to do with foliage of any kind. You’ll forgive me if I will indulge myself while I can.”

And he really was not meaning to come off as so very rude, could not afford to when they were finally speaking to him, but he was very hungry, and very tired, and his back ached something fierce where Thorin had wrenched his shoulder.

Luckily, he was travelling with dwarrow who, as a rule, are not an especially sensitive people when it comes to polite dinner conversation. Indeed, Nori laughed uproariously at his bitter snipe and the Ur’s too chuckled warmly. Dwalin glared over at Nori briefly from where he sat by his side.

And wasn’t that interesting? Bilbo had been under the impression that the two of them were not on good terms, what with the avoidance and heated glares and what not. It wasn’t his business but, well, he had very little else to do on the road but study his companions.

“Bilbo likes his plants,” Kíli chirped from next to him and Bilbo smiled faintly at his presence.

(He did ever so enjoy the company of the two Princes.

He had not realized that he had been quite so lonely in his empty smial, not until he had these two to warm his heart.

It was a terrible thing to think that eventually such things would come to an end.)

“Aye, and they like him just as well,” Fíli answered, a booming laugh following the pun and causing something anxious to tighten in Bilbo’s stomach.

Bilbo knew that what had been done could not be undone, and he did not regret the joy that he had brought the princes with his small magics, even if they did not understand his meaning. Still, he could not push aside the lingering knowledge that he had done something wrong.

He had broken the law, in fact the most ancient law, one of the few that his people had written for themselves and not simply adopted from their ruling kingdom.

With any luck he may yet avoid revealing the depth of this secret and leave them only with the notion that he was an odd little hedge witch of a Hobbit.

(Better that they think it only one small magic than the writhing, living, goliath of a thing that was his people’s birthright.)

“Well, then, Baggins, eat your fill,” Nori goaded, a glint to his eye that Bilbo was trying very hard to ignore the challenge in, “small thing like you, I don’t think our hosts will miss much of anything.”

And Bilbo had the suspicion, all of a sudden, that Nori was not talking about a few plates of greens.

His heart skipped excitedly as, quick as a flash, Nori had twirled a little silver chain - one of the ones holding back the enormous flowing curtains - across his knuckles and back into his sleeve before anyone could see a thing.

A wicked grin split the dwarf’s face as he saw Bilbo’s eyes follow the movement and Bilbo knew now why Nori had not warmed to him very much.

Dwarrow were incredibly proud creatures, and most of all they took pride in their chosen Craft. Bilbo thought then, that in light of what Nori’s chosen profession was, he might have been presumptuous in allowing himself to be named the Company’s Burglar.

He swallowed thickly, nervous and excited all at once in a way that he was becoming used to in these long harrowing days.

(A way that he had not been in a very long time, and a way that, secretly, deep in his heart of hearts he had missed with a fierce ache.)

His face was carefully maintained in its fondly annoyed placement as he turned back to his food.

(It would not do to give away the game to others.)

“I eat more than you would think, Master Nori,” he answered, gesturing to his three cleaned plates and swapping his salad fork for a dinner fork with his other hand – boldly, he thought, for any observing Hobbit would immediately pick up on the oddity of it. He reached over his silverware for his glass, pointedly ignoring the set of three where a moment ago there had been four.

Nori’s grin grew fiercer and the silver was cold where it rested on Bilbo’s skin beneath his sleeve.

Dinner carried on in much the same pattern, the Princes or the Urs saying something ridiculous or astonishingly bold, Bilbo quipping at them with gusto, and one or more of the Ris butting in tentatively every so often.

If the table became progressively barer of shiny baubles as they went, well, Dwalin’s growing suspicion was the only indication.

Bilbo had some difficulty now, he would admit, all the subtle trinkets having fallen prey to his or Nori’s quick hands and Thorin’s glowering from the high table very distracting. More distracting than he would like to admit, and for reasons he had yet to puzzle out.

Surely, Thorin had better things to do up there at that table of Lords than glower down at a mischievous little Hobbit?

He quickly abandoned such musings in outrage.

The serving elf that had bent over Nori to refill his ale had walked away without the pendant to her necklace.

Now how had that rascal gone and done that?

Before Bilbo could puzzle it out, Dwalin’s large hand came up and slapped Nori upside the head, causing him to lurch forward and the very pendant to fly out of its resting place in his high collared coat.

Silence rang out over the table for a moment. Dwalin glowered at the thieving dwarf like a thundercloud and both of his brothers looked dreadfully embarrassed by the revelation for a moment. Dori, though, rapidly reddened in the face, in what Bilbo was very certain was anger more than shame. The worst of it all, was Nori’s face; wide, shocked eyes, and a rising blush as he slowly reached up to pat at his ruined tufts of hair where Dwalin’s hand had crushed it flat.

Bilbo wasn’t sure who had lost their composure first; himself or the Princes but all of a sudden laughter rang out across the table. The Urs quickly joined in and even the other dwarrow seemed to find the entire thing ridiculous.

Nori had snapped his head around to gape at Dwalin mutely, hand still clutching at his hair, and Bilbo was beginning to understand that something a bit more than what he had first imagined was happening between those two. Nori was not the kind of person to be so easily taken aback.

Personal, indeed.

Dwalin huffed in annoyance, or something else, Bilbo could not say. He reached up with an armored hand and wrenched Nori’s from his hair, though the force of the movement belied the care with which he maneuvered Nori’s nimble fingers out from the auburn mass, careful even of his own plated knuckle dusters.

Nori, if possible, flushed a deeper red. Dwalin looked away sharply and placed Nori’s hand back onto the table, his own resting atop of it for a moment before he wrenched it away roughly. He picked up the forgotten pendant and, without looking, tossed it behind him into the lap of an astounded serving elf who had not noticed she had been robbed.

Nori turned to watch the display of skill and Dwalin grinned to himself quickly before smothering the expression just as fast.

Ah. Well. That explained that, then.

Nori turned back to Dwalin and stared for a moment before his faced twisted into a perplexed and vaguely hopeful expression. He leaned in closer to Dwalin, long fingered hands sliding across the elvish tablecloth to just barely brush those hand guards.

He said something softly then, that Bilbo realized was meant to be a whisper. Judging by the disappointed expressions of those around him, it was so to them. The others turned back to what they were doing, Dori gaping at his brother in outrage even as Ori tried to calm him futilely.

And still, Bilbo could not help but overhear the hushed conversation happening directly across from him.

“Why’d ya go and do that, huh, Captain?” Nori murmured, and oh sweet Lady, Bilbo knew that tone and his ears were burning at the secondhand embarrassment. He really needed to mention to someone that he had rather better hearing than they did. And soon.

Dwalin kept his eyes on the table, staring steadily at the hands so close to his own, as if challenging them to even try and touch him. His expression did not change but something in his eyes shifted and Bilbo really ought to try to block them out at least, shouldn’t he? He felt like a voyeur. Couldn’t they do this somewhere other than the bloody dinner table?

Dwalin turned only slightly to look at Nori and something in the thief relaxed at the attention, a hesitant smile coming to his face – real and warm and not at all sly. Dwalin’s hand shifted, and inch and no more, just barely brushing Nori’s finger but certainly there, clearly deliberate.

“Zûr êthârul mahmabakhôn ni targmêzu?”[i] Dwalin grumbled, and Bilbo did not know what he said, but yes, alright, he could admit that Dwarvish and that kind of voice were a very alluring combination. Nori was a dwarf who appreciated the finer luxuries in life and well, yes, Bilbo could see how something like this could have come to be.

Nori’s smile shifted into something wicked once more, his eyes dropping to their hands, even as he lifted one finger to run lightly across the broad side of Dwalin’s.

“Ach, nanar, ibinê,”[ii] he hummed lazily, and Bilbo did not have to see Dwalin’s wide eyes or his sharp intake of breath to feel his own blush rising. Good Mother of all that was green, he did not know what they were saying but whatever it was they should not have been saying it in public.

Dori stood abruptly from his seat and marched over to the two of them. He wrenched his brother’s hand away from Dwalin’s and dragged him up and away even as he sent the pair of them alternating glares. Dwalin cleared his throat and sat straighter, meeting Dori’s glare head on with a cool stare of his own. Nori grinned madly, even locked in his brother’s bruising grip as he was.

“Enough,” Dori ground out, prim and furious as he turned to face his brother, “you are going to go sit on the other side of Ori there and then later we are going to have a talk about this. The lot of us. Is that acceptable, Lord Dwalin?” And the way that he said the last part, turning to sneer at Dwalin, was not a question, not at all.

Dwalin glared up at Dori, whatever open something that had been in his face only moments ago, closing itself off as he nodded tightly. Balin frowned worriedly from where he sat on Bilbo’s opposite side and Glóin and Óin exchanged disgruntled looks that Bilbo could not read. Dori huffed out a growl and sat himself down in his brother’s vacated seat.

Nori hovered behind him, manic grin disconcerting as he practically bounced on his feet. Dwalin quirked his brow at him before he huffed out a sigh and shooed him away, seemingly annoyed. Nori tossed him a saucy wink and flounced away to lounge on the far side of his baby brother.

Bilbo valiantly tried to ignore the glances that they kept shooting at each other from that point on.

As if that whole ordeal hadn’t been awkward enough, Kíli had taken it upon himself to flirt with the harpist behind the table.

This may not have been a terribly poor decision under normal circumstances, after all, Bilbo remembered being young and wild like the Princes were.

(In fact, he had not truly settled into his bachelorhood until a decade or two into his tenure as The Baggins, a fairly long period of tomfoolery compared to those of his peers.)

But still, Bilbo could not say that flirting with those that were so obviously in the ill graces of his uncle was a wise decision.

Not that anything Kíli did was ever terribly wise.

He was, however, always terribly honest. Much to his own detriment.

Dwalin had pinned the princeling with one of his blank but strangely descriptive stares and he had stopped his winking and smoldering at once, brown eyes flickering to his plate like a naughty child.

Bilbo might have found his reaction amusing were it not for the flash of genuine shame that he caught on Kíli’s face. Such an expression suited him little, and Bilbo was pained to think that he would feel any shame for such a harmless indulgence as this.

“You know,” Kíli began to say, light and quick as if it were any other nonsense conversation that he was having, idly fiddling with whatever foodstuff was within reach, “I never really fancied elf maids, myself. All creamy skin and high cheekbones - can’t get behind it, really.”

Dwalin raised a sardonic eyebrow at the statement, stony gaze baiting the Prince to continue lying to him and see how it faired.

Another serving elf passed behind them and Kíli’s anxious wandering gaze locked onto them, taking in the sharp jaw, strong neck, and prominent brow. Bilbo felt himself flush in second-hand embarrassment before Kíli even opened his fool mouth.

“Well, that one isn’t too bad, though,” he said, and popped a grape into his mouth as if to shut himself up. Bilbo knew that the poor boy must have been attempting to test the waters, see how the others reacted to even slight interest in an elf that more closely resembled what Bilbo thought that dwarrow must find traditionally attractive.

(And what did dwarrow find attractive, really?

Beards, likely. Bilbo had learned from the Ur’s that even dwarrowdams had beards, and quite lovely ones at that, or so they had said.

Bilbo could admit that facial hair could be attractive, on occasion, if one wore it well. He had had a few fleeting fancies for the odd Stoor lad and a few passing Men enough to know that.

He himself had no facial hair to speak of.

It had never bothered him before now.)

Dwalin’s unamused expression split into a mocking grin and Kíli’s roguish smile immediately fell at the sight of it.

“That’s no elf maid, lad,” he said with a salacious wink, the table erupting into laughter as the prince flushed in embarrassment.

Bilbo felt badly for him, even more so as he watched Kíli force himself to laugh along with them after a moment, hand clenched on his lap where none but Bilbo could see it.

Still, dwarrow were not ones to linger upon a topic once the enjoyment had bled from it, and so the conversation soon shifted to safer shores.

Kíli’s fist was still curled tightly in his lap, and his gaze was dark and thoughtful as he stared at his plate. Fíli often cast him concerned glances, but ultimately said and did nothing to ease his mind. Bilbo was not sure that he could if he had tried and thought that perhaps it was this knowledge that stayed his hand.

Bilbo, on the other hand, was rather more familiar with this particular brand of hurt himself.

Being a Took in a sea of Baggins’, an adventurer at heart, and possessing the strongest Green Touch since Gerontius himself – well, Bilbo’s wandering eye was the least of his troubles, but certainly the one most commented upon without repercussion.

(Old Blood was only disparaged behind closed doors, after all.)

His romantic preferences, while certainly not a crime, were rather, ah, modern, by Shire standards. And didn’t it just suit Belladonna’s son to snub tradition like that? It would be one thing for a Gamgee or a Hornblower’s son, but a Baggins? Of Bag End?

It was all the talk of the market for months after he and one of the Grubb boys had been caught fooling around down by the Party Tree.

(That had been decades ago by now, and truth be told the panic and hurt had only lasted as long as it took for his parents to catch wind of it.

They’d sat him down and talked him out of his gossip-induced shame and they’d all had a good laugh about it by day’s end.)

Bilbo remembered how scared he’d been for those few hours; walking on eggshells, paranoid and ashamed, and dreading what his ever-traditional Father would say to him - think of him.

He could not imagine how much worse it would have been to have an entire Royal heritage weighing him down.

“Well,” he murmured nudging Kíli’s shoulder amicably, “I don’t see how they’d expect us to tell, what with not a one of being elvish ourselves. The least they could do is wear a sign – a pin or something,” He winked mischievously at the young dwarf, “Else we’d ruin all chance of flirtation before we’d even started.”

Kíli gaped at him in open mouthed surprise even as he heard Fíli nearly choke on his ale.

“What?” he asked, playing the innocent, “It’s only polite. Terribly rude to assume we’d know off hand. Why, we’re liable to make right fools of ourselves like that!”

He raised his brows expectantly at the Princes as he took a sip of his ale – much lighter than any hobbitish brew tended to be. Certainly, it must taste like slightly fragrant water to the rest of the company.

Fíli seemed to gather his wits first, as he always did, ever the diplomat.

“Why, Mister Boggins,” he said, all delight and fake shock, though Bilbo could see the gratitude in his eyes, the eagerness to be past the hurt in his brother’s own, “you aren’t plotting to steal an Elf maid yourself, are you?”

Kíli’s head whipped to his brother at that, shocked face seemingly frozen in its gaping expression.

“Oh no, no, no, certainly not,” Bilbo replied, all mock indignation and just the right amount of teasing beneath, as he turned back to absently work at his plate, “no maids for me, please, Elven or otherwise.”

“Ah, an Elf lad, then,” Fíli easily amended, smile quick and relaxed, and Bilbo wondered how long this particular sore spot had lingered between the two brothers, “might try the one Kee pointed out, there, he looks well enough, though I’m no judge of elven fairness myself.”

“Oh, well,” and Bilbo couldn’t help but cast a glance at the elf in question, who while being admittedly fair was not the type of beauty that Bilbo himself found much attractive, “not exactly my cup of tea, I’m afraid. Though I know a fair few Hobbits who’d snatch the hair from my feet for saying so.”

And Fíli laughed at that, the way that Bilbo had intended him too, and Kíli’s shock melted into a watery smile that did something awful to Bilbo’s heart.

“No, I think I’m past any whirlwind romances, these days,” He said with a sigh, and then a warm smile as he patted Kíli’s arm gently, “I’ll leave all that excitement to you lads, I think.”

And Kíli smiled at him, faint und unsure and with all that wild hair getting in his eyes and Bilbo barely stopped himself from brushing it out of his face as if he was some unruly faunt in need of a trim. Bilbo had never had younger siblings, never had any young ones that weren’t the charge of someone else to look after, but he thought that it wouldn’t have been so bad if he had.

“Come now,” he said, gathering up his hardly touched meal, laden with a fair bit of green and all of the things a dwarf-lad would like; sausages and roast beast laden with gravy and all available delights of that kind, “strapping lads like you need to eat properly; I’ll not have you go to bed hungry.”

He pushed the plate over to rest in front of Kíli, suddenly sure that a good meal would cheer him right up. It wasn’t until alarm and surprise crossed the Prince’s face that Bilbo realized himself.

Neither of these two were truly lads; young though they may seem, they were grown enough to be on this quest. They were not helpless; they were not wanting for anything that he could offer.

He could not protect them; the thought was laughable. He was a Hobbit, and not a sturdily built Hobbit at that, and they were two grown dwarrow; born and bred on battle.

No, protection they did not need, and he could not give.

Neither did they need whatever comfort or – Yavanna help him, _parental_ _affection_ he had been tempted to bestow upon them – had bestowed upon them, before he’d ever realized it.

How must he seem then to them? To these Princes that he so often forgot were such? This puny little thing, trying to – to _take care _of them. As if he had the right, as if he had the _means-_

No. It must seem terribly insulting, the audacity of it, the implication that they could not take care of themselves –

(But they seemed so young so very often and more than once Bilbo had wondered why Thorin had brought them, why for Eru’s sake he would put his own nephews through such a grueling venture.

But the way that they fought, the way that they faced down Orc and Warg and the very face of Mandos[iii] – those were not the feats of dwarrowlings, those were the feats of warriors, the kind that Belladonna used to read about when she put him to bed.

They were so bright and so new, and Bilbo ached that he could do nothing for them, ached to see that they ached, perhaps childishly, for their Uncle’s attentions, and neither Thorin nor Bilbo himself could give it to them.)

But then Kíli set his face in that determined expression of his - the one that made him look so very like Thorin then, when Thorin was planning and leading and doing all those very admirable things that he did when he was not scowling at Bilbo - and he tucked into his plate and something thick and hot burned in the back of Bilbo’s throat.

(Bilbo had not been brought to tears in a very long while – fainted yes, gone into hysterics, certainly, but he had not wept for a very long while.)

Luckily, he was distracted by the vaguely jealous look that the elder Prince had aimed at his brother. Choking back both his aborted tears and amused laughter, he slid a nearby plate of sweets to Fíli.

Both dwarrow fed and happy to be so - to his secret relief - he turned to his own meal.

The meal passed pleasantly, barring the distressing illness that seemed to have overcome poor Bombur, and after thoroughly decimating the dining hall, they were shown to their rooms at last.

They were spacious rooms, thirteen of them luckily enough, with lovely canopied beds laden with fresh linens and soft pillows. Rolling elvish archways separated individual rooms with interconnecting doors for closeness and privacy at their convenience. Each room had its own hearth and accompanying amenities; bookshelves, and chaise lounges, and sturdy writing desks with carefully carved molding. Bright windows let in fresh air and sunlight and the sounds of birds and Bilbo felt that he was in love.

He could have spent the whole of his days in this place and been pleased to do so, he was sure.

(Certainly, it was a more pleasant outcome than a cold mountain and a fiery death.)

Alas, Bilbo had forgotten that he was travelling with dwarrow. Dwarrow who had a rather pressing enmity for elves.

“What’s all this?” Barked Glóin, flint eyes scouring the room for Eru knew what, “do they mean to separate us?”

The lot of them devolved into hostile murmurs and suspicious grumbling and Bilbo was very, very, tired of all of it. So tired in fact that he refused to participate in any way and found a particularly interesting carving to focus on until they settled themselves and stopped antagonizing his burgeoning headache.

It was to his immense annoyance that the thirteen of them relocated by nigh unanimous vote to one large room, which Bilbo suspected was supposed to be some manner of communal lounge, and not actually one bedroom as the dwarrow made it out to be. One large room with a distinct lack of beds, or hearths, or any such lovely things that Bilbo had been so pleased by.

He wondered if he could just sneak off and sleep in one of the guest rooms regardless, with none the wiser.

(He wondered if anyone would notice that he was missing at all.)

It was to his immense relief that the dwarrow decided that this down time was best spent bathing. A suggestion which Bilbo heartily supported and was thankful that he had not had to put out himself. Bilbo himself complaining of a baker’s dozen of rank dwarrow was, apparently, something to be ignored – simply another inane complaint in a slew of many that he had made - but if Dori was the one complaining then they knew that their stench had become foul indeed.

And when Dori told you to scrub, well, it was best to listen.

Bilbo was not quite as pleased when their failed search for proper baths led them to the conclusion that they ought to just rinse off in the fountains. The garden fountains. The _public _fountains.

“Come along now, Master Baggins, right this way,” Dori called, leading him by the shoulder – thankfully his uninjured shoulder – to the gardens where the rest of the Company were _already stripping_.

“No!” He squeaked, and he could admit that it was a squeak because that was just the kind of sound you made when thirteen dwarrow you barely knew were happily naked in front of you, “no, no, no, no, I’m quite alright, thank you, I think I’ll go and continue the search for my own bath, thank you, _in private_, if you please! No, don’t follow me, goodness _gracious_. Fíli if you come near me, I can promise you that you will regret it. Good Day!”

He made a hasty retreat from the garden, and naked dwarrow, and scheming Princes who were certainly _not_ children, yes, thank you very much, he was going to have to pluck his eyes out now. There were some things that one did not want to see.

He wandered blindly until he was far enough away that he could no longer hear their dwarven ruckus and then, and only then, did he open his mistreated eyes once more.

Thoroughly lost, and more than a bit alright with the fact, he continued to meander through the vast halls of Rivendell. Truly, it was a beautiful place, the like of which he had never seen and only ever imagined.

It was more lovely than he had thought that it would be.

(His mother had told of him of this place, of the single time that she’d seen it.

She’d been on one of her journeys –an ill-advised romp with Rangers rather than the wizard she had been so fond of travelling with. But Gandalf had been late, and the Rangers well-armed and familiar, and no one had expected the wolves to attack.

They were small and starved and half mad with hunger – not the beasts of his nightmares, either asleep or waking, but common and pitiful animals that Belladonna had later been sad to have killed. They had taken a good chunk from her middle and the Rangers, ever adoring of their small friendly ward, had flown in a panic to the nearest place of healing.

And so, had the first and only Hobbit come to the Last Homely House.

She had stayed for a time there, recovering, and delighting in the Elves and their home, and it was here that she learned some small amount of Sindarin that she then passed onto her son.

It was here, too, that he knew she had lost whatever hope she had of a large family of her own. The wound healed well, but ran deep, and even his birth alone had nearly killed her more than a decade after the attack. She had never said as much but he knew that she regretted it fiercely.

Hobbits were never raised alone. He was the first only child in a very, very, long time.)

But the past was the past, and Imladris was lovely indeed.

He wandered and wandered, and eventually forgot what he was looking for or even that he had been looking at all. He walked until at last he came to a hall, more dimly lit than most, but lined with a mournful statue along one wall and a mural along the other.

The statue was of a woman, startlingly mortal in appearance, clearly a Daughter of Man, draped in flowing robes, and with a serene face. She held in her hands a platter of sorts, with a cloth draped across, jarring compared to the fluidity of the stone. Resting on the stone was a sword - beautiful, shattered, but carefully laid to rest.

(Waiting, it felt like it was waiting, for something, no, for _someone_. But who? Who was she waiting all these long years for?)

Bilbo did not like the magic he felt there, the sorrow in the statue, or the life in the blade and so he turned away.

(Hobbits had proven adept at ignoring that which they did not want to see.

They had done so for so long now that they had convinced themselves that bad things never happened at all, and if they did it was because someone had done something to bring it upon themselves. They ignored their past, and those that they had once called allies outside of their own – where once there had been great friendship with elven folk and the High Men of Norbury[iv] their now lie only fear and suspicion. Where once the Sea was thought of with wonder, now it had become a word of fear among them, a token of death. They would not look West toward the Sea and still they turned their faces away from their origins and their grief in the East.

Hobbits settled in the Shire and never dared to leave because no matter which way they turned all that awaited them was grief and fear.

They ignored what they knew and chose ignorance, and Bilbo had never thought that he would count himself as one of that lot but he was just so tired. Too tired, to connect these puzzle pieces, to acknowledge the threads connecting Necromancers and broken magic Swords, and- oh good Green Lady, was this painting really what he thought it was?)

The mural was faded but intricate, clearly old but dreadfully important. It was of a Man, a man and something that was not. Something that was not Man nor Elf nor any of the free races of Middle–Earth and Bilbo shuddered to gaze upon even a caricature of that horrid being.

(There was something on Him in the painting, something golden and lovely, and awful, and he had to look away.)

He turned away and walked toward the terrace, golden light and fresh air, and he breathed deeply.

Nonsense. Nonsense, and hogwash, and hardly his concern, anyway. Ancient history! The realm of wizards, that was, not for Hobbits, certainly not for Bilbo. He had enough to be concerned about, anyway.

He had a mountain, and a dragon, for goodness sake! And thirteen dwarrow that needed looking after, lest they wander right into a brawl and lose their way when he wasn’t looking. And a King who did not like him at all but who, for some eternally damnable reason, he liked rather a lot.

Never meet your heroes, they always said.

(Nevermind that Thorin wasn’t such until after they’d met – not that Thorin was _his_ hero in particular, just that he was _a _hero, certainly, to his people and surely an inspirational figure besides and- and- )

“Not with your companions?” Came a voice from behind him, and Bilbo turned quickly to the source, only to find himself looking up, up, up – ah, there he was. Lord Elrond stood there, regal and kind, curious old eyes watching Bilbo patiently and Bilbo felt himself flush at the attention.

(Even if lithe beauty was not his particular fancy, objectively Elves were rather lovely, and even he felt himself fluster under the attention of someone as fair as that.)

“Ah, no I shan’t be missed,” he replied, and wasn’t it dreadful how sure he was of the fact? The Ur’s liked him well enough but they had just barely become friends and besides they had each other to worry about more than one lone Hobbit. As for Fíli and Kíli, well, those two won’t be missing him until they run out of mischief to make on their lonesome.

(As for the rest of them, well, Bilbo didn’t feel like wasting energy or heartache over their indifference. He could not blame them for it.)

Lord Elrond looked at him in some otherworldly expression of interest and premature pity and Bilbo felt that he must carry on if only to get to some other subject than this one.

“The truth is most of them don’t think that I should be on this journey,” and he quirked a little self-deprecating smile then because the _truth_ was that half of the time, he thought that he shouldn’t be on this journey.

(He knows that he shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t have left the Shire, shouldn’t have befriended dwarrow, shouldn’t have opened up so much to them, shouldn’t have listened to Thorin’s singing, shouldn’t have listened to the Wizards scheming, shouldn’t know about dreadful dark things that shouldn’t still be creeping in the abandoned places of the world, shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t-)

“Indeed,” said Lord Elrond and Bilbo had the sinking thought that, somehow, he _knew_, before the Elf Lord carried on, assurance in his gaze, “but I have heard that Hobbits are very resilient.”

And just like that Bilbo knew that it was his mother that the Elf Lord thought of. Elrond had not heard as much as he had witnessed, and Bilbo remembered his mother’s fondness for the Lord of this land well enough to know that he would recognize her son when he entered his halls.

Bilbo almost laughed then. Oh, yes, Hobbits are soft creatures, the irony was very funny he knew. But the Lord’s face was not teasing. He was sincere, and Bilbo could only wonder at the surprise that flooded him. And why should he be surprised? His mother had been resilient. She had been the strongest, bravest, stoutest Hobbit lass that the Shire ever had or ever would know.

(But he was not the same, and he did not know why this Lord would think that he was. Simply because he was Belladonna’s son? Well, he was Bungo’s son too, and Bungo was not resilient, not in the end, now was he?)

“Really?” He asked, and he cursed the foolish hopeful part of him that wanted to be brave, wanted to honor his mother’s legacy, wanted stupid daft dwarrow to like him.

Elrond smiled at him then, misplaced fondness that made Bilbo giddy and nervous simultaneously, “I’ve also heard that they are fond of the comforts of home.”

And Bilbo was quite sure what his Mother must have said to Elrond about that; about all the lazy self-important hobbits that refused to just leave her to her wanderings in peace. Oh, he was quite sure.

And perhaps if his Mother could jest with an Elf Lord, could even befriend one as she had often said, then he ought to try the same.

“And I have heard that it is unwise to seek the counsel of elves, for they will answer both yes and no,” and Bilbo smiled teasingly then, though his wit was quickly overshadowed by alarm as Elrond’s face remained impassive.

Eventually, though, the Elf Lord cracked a smile, a small reserved thing, but one of amusement none the less and Bilbo felt the relief of it almost physically.

“You are very welcome to stay here,” he said after a moment, gently and kindly, and even still it drew Bilbo up short, “if that is your wish.”

And Bilbo did not have any proper response to that, not at all, as he hardly knew his own mind well enough to answer, these days.

(Indeed, he wished for many things, soft things, warm familiar, hidden things that he denied himself simply by being here, though the ache of wanting them flared so fiercely in his heart.)

Elrond it seemed, knew this, or at least knew enough of it, and so with a polite smile and a warm hand upon Bilbo’s shoulder he took his leave. Bilbo watched him go and knew that someday, he would dearly regret not having accepted such an offer. He knew that Imladris would be a light in his darkest days, a sanctuary more perfect than the Shire could ever be.

But, then, the Shire was a flawed place, and this perhaps made it all the more lovely. After all, living things were made to be flawed, and this in turn made them perfect. Whatever the case, Bilbo’s heart still lay in that far off green land and he could not see it elsewhere, though it may sway from time to time as all hearts are wont to do.

He stood out on that terrace for a while longer, thinking and feeling and simply breathing there in no company but his own and the singing of the birds as he had not in such a long while.

He had been an unusually solitary Hobbit since his parents’ passing, and even before that. He had always liked company and revelry as much as any Hobbit – which is to say, just erring on the right side of too much – but when he retired, well, he liked to do so to a quiet home and a warm hearth. Guests were not uncommon in Bag End, but certainly, they were present much less than they had been in Bungo’s day. Perhaps much too sparsely for a Gentle-hobbit of Bilbo’s standing.

(But Bilbo was not the type to suffer the company of those whom he did not care for simply to appease entitled well-to-do’s and gossips.)

An entire season of travel with these dwarrow – not a moment of privacy in between – and he was quite wrung out. It was no wonder that his thoughts were so muddled, that his emotions were so unpredictable.

He could certainly say that if he had been granted time to himself and a proper night’s rest, he never would have found himself nose to nose with a Dwarf King. He certainly wouldn’t have broken the law and revealed his gifts to Kíli and Fíli, and he certainly wouldn’t be finding himself so attached to the lot of them – all thirteen, to be accurate! He’d hardly spoken more than a few words to most of these dwarrow and yet he felt some measure of responsibility for them – to them.

He could hardly explain it. He had never been the sort to grow easily attached – certainly, if that were the case he’d have been married thrice over by now!

(He’d had no shortage of suitors even after he himself had ceased to be very interested in the notion. Many of them were sincere enough – though more than a few were after money and prestige rather than his heart – and any of these nice lasses or lads would have made a fine addition to Bag End. Still, in all those decades his heart had never been stirred, not truly, and after he’d broken his fair share of hearts, he’d decided that enough was enough. These days he was the Bachelor of Bag End and that suited him just fine.)

Now here he was with two princes he felt an unjustified level of fondness for, one King who was too admirable for his own rotten personality, and ten other dwarrow who were each charming and infuriating in their own rights.

He was losing his mind. He must be.

(But hadn’t he decided that he’d gone properly mad oh, about three months ago, in the first place? How was he to know that it came in stages?)

“Bilbo, dear boy, is this where you were hiding?” Gandalf called and Bilbo might have jumped if he hadn’t heard the Wizard’s staff tapping against the tile moments before he spoke. Gandalf was usually considerate like that, when he wanted to be. Only when he wanted to be, of course.

“Not hiding, my friend, not at all,” he countered, finding it second nature to tease the Old Man as he had done in his younger days, as his mother had done before him, “simply wandering. Sightseeing may not be a particularly hobbitish past time, but I thought that I might as well take it up.”

“Yes, the Valley is a wonderous sight, isn’t it,” Gandalf replied, humming thoughtfully as he leaned on his staff, “and though wandering may not be a particularly hobbitish past time I was quite certain that bathing was.”

“Excuse me! What are you implying?” And Bilbo was quite good at playing the astonished and offended gentlehobbit, though he knew well enough that he smelt of sweat and ponies and troll.

“Only that I know where a bath may be found and that I know a discerning Hobbit who may be interested in the prospect,” Gandalf said, grey eyes amused and light. Bilbo did indeed need a bath and he was certainly not about to shy away from a private one.

“Well, lead on, my friend!” He answered, unable to hold back the excited laugh that the mere thought of being clean again lent him.

Gandalf led him to the baths – great steaming rooms, both public and private, and smelling of herbs, and salts, and minerals in turns, that the dwarrow would have easily found had they simply deigned to ask their hosts. Instead they bathed in frigid garden fountains wile Bilbo lounged in steaming water and washed with soap that smelled of lavender.

It served them right, he thought, perhaps uncharitably, but alas, prejudice would only beget more prejudice and Bilbo was not liable to condone the dwarrow’s blatant hatred of Elves as a whole.

(None of it made much sense to Bilbo whose people hated no one at all and were only, as a matter of course, distrustful of absolutely everyone who was not one of their own.)

It was nearly time for supper when he finally emerged, pink cheeked and pleased, and he was quite delighted to find his clothing had been freshly laundered while he had bathed. Though he hadn’t the faintest idea how they had gotten it all dry so quickly, he was happy enough to chalk it up to elvish magic and be on his way to the kitchens.

Alas, it was not meant to be. Gandalf appeared nearly as soon as he was out of the bath house proper and ushered him off to some secret clandestine meeting with Lord Elrond that he was fairly sure he shouldn’t be attending.

Judging by the look on Thorin’s face, he most certainly shouldn’t have been.

“I had thought it prudent to bring Master Baggins along, I hope that you don’t mind over much,” Gandalf said to the gathering at large, though it sounded more perfunctory than it had any right too. Bilbo knew that this was not the kind of thing that he should be involved in, that it was not his place to sit in councils with Lords, and Kings, and Wizards. Though he had always had a mind for strategic thinking he had never put himself forward in the business of the Company’s leading – had known that he would not be wanted nor appreciated.

“Ah, certainly,” Lord Elrond agreed without hesitation, a warm smile of greeting and a nod all that he had to say about the matter before he turned expectantly to Thorin.

“Our business is no concern of Elves,” Sneered the dwarf in reply, just like Bilbo knew that he would, the insufferable self-important –

“For goodness sake, Thorin,” Gandalf sighed, echoing Bilbo’ own thoughts, “show him the map.”

And Bilbo felt his heart speed up in excitement at the thought of the map. The brief glance that he had gotten of it had revealed little beyond the fact that it was very old and the fact that it was excellently crafted.

He had a long-standing infatuation with cartography and calligraphy and all written forms of knowledge that had garnered him a rather odd reputation in Hobbiton. While he was respectfully regarded as one of the most well learned Hobbits in the whole of the Shire it was also said that he was odd and bookish beyond propriety, that the knowledge that he sought was foreign and not always wholesome. Not that hobbitish busy bodies had any inkling at all of what kind of knowledge that may be in the specific, but it certainly couldn’t be anything good, now could it?

“It is the legacy of my people,” Thorin snapped in response to the Wizard, “it is mine to protect, as are its secrets.” Thorin looked between the elf and the wizard before his eyes lingered, inexplicably, upon Bilbo himself.

He did his very best not to be offended by the obvious mistrust. Bilbo knew that Thorin did not like him and found him less than useless, but he had at least hoped that, as a member of this company, he had earned some measure of trust. It seemed that Thorin at least regarded him still with the same level of suspicion as an Elf.

Bilbo did not know why the thought angered him quite as much as it did.

“Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves!” Gandalf cried and, while Bilbo could agree with the sentiment when it came to this dwarf in particular, he felt it a disservice to decry the entire race for the failures of one lout of a King. Certainly, it was quite rude, even if one didn’t count the fact that Gandalf most assuredly knew of the impropriety of the term ‘dwarves’ as he used it, “Your pride will be your downfall.”

(Bilbo tried very hard not to linger on the ominous tone of that particular comment.)

Thorin simply sneered at the Old Man, something smug and equally resigned in his eyes that Bilbo did not like, not at all. It was this side of Thorin that Bilbo found difficult to admire – proud to a fault, callous, and smug. No, he liked him much better when his pride was less sharp, less sour – battered over the years into something dignified and refined that spread to encompass all those that followed him. When he stood like that, with the air of a true King, it was almost impossible to remember what a surly, narcissistic _brat_ he could be. They would get nowhere if both Gandalf and Thorin devolved into a petty argument and Bilbo knew that the Wizard knew it. A glance his way showed that Gandalf was taking steadying breaths and Bilbo had to stifle a chuckle at the thought that one dwarf could drive him to such a temper.

“You stand in the presence of one of the few in Middle-earth who can read that map,” Gandalf continued, eyes narrowed in annoyance at the thick-headed dwarf, “show Lord Elrond the map.”

Bilbo watched as Thorin clenched his impressive jaw in anger and he could not stop the exasperation from showing on his own face. Perhaps he would get his wish and they would be staying here in Rivendell indefinitely.

Eventually though, Thorin seemed to come to a very reluctant decision and stepped forward, holding out the map to Lord Elrond.

Bilbo could hardly hold back his gasp of surprise at that; Thorin had never seemed the type to concede so easily. But then Bilbo was once again reminded that he did not know this dwarf hardly at all.

(And something about the notion stung at him; a needling persistent discomfort that he could neither name nor be rid of.)

“Thorin, no!” Cried Balin, much to Bilbo’s surprise, and the old dwarf looked positively aghast as Thorin gently brushed him aside. Balin had always seemed to Bilbo to be one of the most reasonable of the dwarrow. Of all the company he was the one who Bilbo would have counted on to see reason.

(But then the elders were always the ones who most desperately clung to tradition and that it seemed did not change from race to race.)

Lord Elrond took the map from Thorin with a gracious and began to carefully unfold it, wary of the age which had worked over the creases of the fine paper.

“Erebor,” he murmured, and there was something in his voice, something that spoke of great sorrow and grief and once more Bilbo felt like the odd man out. All this journey long, he had heard the sounds of awe and longing and grief that plagued the name of that Lonely Mountain and to find it here too, in this place so perfect and untouched by the outside world made him feel as though he were misplaced. Ignorant of such a wonder, of such a loss; as if everyone in the whole wide world bore her loss with such pain but he who had never known her grandeur at all.

Lord Elrond’s face hardened then, grief and wonder turned to suspicion and barely restrained anger as he turned to Thorin accusingly.

“What is your interest in this map?” He asked, sharp and acrid and Bilbo did not like it, did not like the way that it made Thorin tense as though struck, the way that shadows began to dance across his face. Thorin made to step forward and Bilbo made to follow.

“Mainly academic,” Gandalf interjected, soothing and not entirely natural tone of voice cracking the tension in the air, “As you know, this sort of artifact sometimes contains hidden text,” he smiled at the Elf in an ingratiating farce that not a soul in the room bought before continuing hurriedly, “you still read ancient dwarvish, do you not?”

Lord Elrond frowned blandly at Gandalf, obviously not believing a word of that nonsense but entirely too used to the wizard’s mischief to be truly angry over it. And wasn’t that interesting, that Lord Elrond could read dwarvish? Bilbo had been under the impression that it was a deeply private secret of theirs, though one of many.

(But Bilbo knew that Dwarrow and Elves had once had great friendship between them – just as Hobbitkind had once had with their neighbors in the East. Alas, just as the Hobbits had slowly segregated themselves from their allies so it seemed that Dwarrow and Elves had forgotten their fondness for each other.)

Lord Elrond at last turned his attention to the map in question, ancient gaze methodically parsing through beautifully inked runes and topography. Carefully, he ran his fingers over the parchment and Bilbo ached to do the same – what paper was it made from? Which fibers did the Dwarrow of Old craft their maps of? It must have been remarkably sturdy to have survived so long out in the open, travelling across middle-earth with its deposed owner before it languished in Gandalf’s pocket for Eru knew how long.

Lord Elrond turned to walk farther along the terrace and Bilbo had to force himself not to follow. He desperately wanted to study the map, to see what wonders of Dwarven craft had bent themselves to such a work, but he knew that it was not his place to do so. Perhaps, were it Lord Elrond’s permission to give he would have gladly allowed Bilbo his curiosity, but he sincerely doubted that Thorin would allow him the same.

“Cirth ithil,” Lord Elrond murmured with a gasp, wonder lighting his face and Bilbo gasped in delight at the sound of such a wonderous thing as that. _Moon-letters_, whatever they may be were most surely some work of magic, he knew.

(Hobbits cared nothing for the study of other peoples or of magic that was not naturally born to them but, well, Bilbo had always been a curious fellow. He had learned some small amount of Sindarin from his mother, true, but he had become fluent on his own efforts.)

“Moon-runes? Of course, an easy thing to miss.” Gandalf assured him, though Bilbo knew it was his own pride that the Wizard sought to soothe.

“In this case that is true,” Elrond agreed, fond smile aimed at the pair of them, and Bilbo wondered exactly how long the two of them had been friends and exactly how he had somehow come to be counted as a friend of both.

“What are Moon-runes?” He asked at length, terribly excited despite himself at the mere prospect of some fanciful magic calligraphy. It was all the stuff of his youthful fantasies and he grinned something foolish to think that such a thing would truly exist out in the wide world all this time without him ever knowing. He took a step toward the map in his eagerness but came up short as Thorin hastily matched the movement – presumably to halt whatever foolish motion he was about to make.

(He tried not to let the sting of such mistrust dampen his excitement.)

“They are rune-letters that cannot be read by simple sight alone,” Lord Elrond answered with a kind smile and an offering of the map in question, “they can only be read by the light of the moon – or, if the author was a particularly cunning sort, only by the light of a moon of the very same shape and season by which they were written.”

Hidden letters! What a trick that was; much better than simple invisible ink that can only be read over an open flame – this was much more intricate. Words with a veritable lock and key! To be able to make them legible on any night or only one specific night – well, they could have infinite uses in such a way.

“The dwarves invented them,” he continued, some fondness and pride by proxy in his tone that warmed Bilbo to him immensely, pleased to find that Elrond had cared as much for his own dwarven friends as Bilbo did for his, “and wrote them with silver pens, inked with ithilden and starlight; bound with the cunning magic of their people, unparalleled in such arts in those days.”

Bilbo could not help the dreamy sigh that escaped him then. Oh, to have walked the halls of Dwarven realms in those days, to have witnessed such skill and wonder as that – Bilbo found his heart ached for it, Tookish a want as it was. What other things of beauty were wrought by Dwarvish hands? What other wonders had sprung from such ingenious minds as these?

Lord Elrond smiled at him fondly and some measure of his excitement and wonder was reflected at him in those ancient eyes. Bilbo had no doubt that Elrond would tell him tales of all those wonders which he longed to see if only he had the time to ask. Alas, time was not on their side and a temperamental Dwarf King waited upon the Elf’s word.

“Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield, the same moon shines upon us this very night,” he said, turning to face Thorin solemnly, face once again nothing but polite distance and respect.

He turned then to exit the terrace and Bilbo was quick to follow, ostensibly to a place where they could better read the runes in question. When they stopped it was to find themselves in a new terrace, built in the shelter behind roaring falls and carved delicately from raw stone. The night was near silent here, only the sound of water echoing hauntingly off the rock to break the quiet. In the center lie a podium of sorts that, at first glance, seemed to be made of some manner of roughly hewn glass. Upon closer inspection though, Bilbo saw that it was in fact made of crystal in its entirety. The rough geometric cut of the crystal carved the table into a strangely forceful yet elegant style of design that Bilbo faintly recognized from the engravings upon the Company’s gear.

(He had noticed that each dwarf had his own individual design; geometric interweaving patterns that adorned their hems, and buckles, and beads.

As with many things that concerned his dwarrow, he had thought better than to ask.)

He wondered what the purpose of such an audacious table may be but was quickly answered when Lord Elrond gently laid the map upon the table’s surface.

Just then, the clouds blew apart and moonlight flooded the alcove, refracting in a delicate rainbow through the falling water and focusing in one pure beam of moonlight that fell upon the table. The light further refracted through the crystalline structure and illuminated the map in such a display of glowing wonder that Bilbo forgot how to breath.

“Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the keyhole,” Elrond spoke and Bilbo hardly heard him for the wonder that had overtaken him at the show of such beauty.

“Durin’s Day?” He asked faintly, overwhelmed but as curious as he ever was despite it all. Without his noticing he had found himself at the table, leaning up to better see the map and the glowing runes written upon it that he sorely wished that he could read.

“The Dwarven New Year,” Gandalf answered, smiling indulgently at Bilbo and he could not find in himself to be embarrassed of his eagerness, not this time.

“When the last moon of autumn and the first sun of winter appear in the sky together,” Thorin continued, voice deep and proud and something about him just as awed as Bilbo felt, surely in awe of the skill of his own people, “it is a time of great joy and much feasting,” and Bilbo knew what a Dwarven party looked like, but a feast, a proper feast in a great Dwarven Hall, all of them firelit and proud and Thorin at the forefront, crowned and resplendent in his own halls – what a sight that must be, “Alas, it passes our skill in these days to guess when such a time will come again.”

And Thorin’s pride had faded then, that timeless sorrow creeping back into his sapphire eyes and Bilbo hated to see it there, all of a sudden, hated to see him so lost and aggrieved.

He clenched his fists, unsure what to do with himself, and cast a desperate look to Gandalf. Gandalf would know what to do, surely.

The Old Man smiled tiredly at him and Bilbo was not certain why it did not reassure him as it should have.

“That remains to be seen,” Gandalf cautioned the dwarf, and Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief at the hope that lit Thorin’s eyes then.

“This is ill news, summer is passing; Durin’s Day will soon be upon us,” countered Balin, and Bilbo felt an irrational surge of dislike for the kindly old dwarf. It wasn’t in his nature to be so petulant, but well, they’d only just gotten Thorin to be hopeful again, why must he go and ruin it?

“We still have time,” Thorin argued, characteristic stubbornness bending in Bilbo’s favor for once and prolonging that determination that he so liked to see on Thorin’s face.

Though if he was being entirely honest, he still had next to know idea of what exactly they were trying to accomplish here. Yes, they plotted to retake the mountain from the supposedly dead dragon, but he did not see how that had anything to do with the hidden runes or prophecy or the New Year or anything else. Would they not simply walk into the Mountain, scout the place out - presumably by means of his fabricated skills at burglary - and then have their way with the, hopefully, vacant Kingdom?

“Time for what?” He asked, because truly he hadn’t been under the impression that they were on a schedule at all.

“To find the entrance,” Balin answered, uncharacteristically eager, “we must be standing in exactly the right place, at precisely the right time – then, and only then, can the door be opened.”

A hidden entrance? What on middle-earth was wrong with the main entrance? Why hadn’t he heard about this before now? Goodness gracious, he should have read that contract more thoroughly.

“So,” spoke Lord Elrond coldly, anger simmering beneath his cool façade, “this is your purpose?”

All eyes turned to him, earlier excitement and merriment wiped clean from the room at the cold fury that the Elf Lord exuded.

“You will enter that mountain?” He asked, outrage, grief, and worry mingled so passionately in his eyes that Bilbo wondered how he showed none of it on his face.

“What of it?” Thorin rebuked, accent thick in his anger, hand moving to the axe that rested heavy on his belt. Bilbo felt panic rise in his throat; for as well-versed of a warrior as he was, Bilbo did not believe for a minute that Thorin would win a fight against Lord Elrond here in his own halls. He moved closer to Thorin’s side in some aborted act of protection that he had not thought through before Elrond’s appraising stare stopped him cold. There was something calculating in that look, something curious that Bilbo could not parse the meaning of before he turned away to face Gandalf.

“There are some who would not deem it wise.” He said, bland and warning all at once, and Bilbo could see that it meant something more to the two of them than it did to him by the surprise on Gandalf’s face.

“What do you mean?” The Wizard asked in that way of his, in which he tried to test whether you yourself knew quite what it was that you meant or rather if it was something else entirely that he would prefer that you meant.

“You are not the only guardian to stand watch over Middle-Earth,” Lord Elrond replied gravely, something heavy and distressing passing between the two before Gandalf grumbled something frustrated and stormed off, Elrond at his heels.

Confused and alarmed, the remainder of the assembled were led back to the rest of the Company who were settled in quite comfortably and none the wiser. It felt strange to him that such grand things could have taken place right down the hall and not a one of his friends here knew of it.

There they sat in their underthings, around an ill-wrought fire, roasting no doubt stolen food stuffs and hacking furniture apart as if their lives depended upon it. Usual dwarven mischief and Bilbo was unnerved to have returned to such a normal sight after the unsettling revelations of the meeting moments prior.

He needed air. Yes, that was it, just a jaunt out in the fresh air and some time to think and he’d be all sorted.

He wandered away from the rest of the Company, not exactly sure where he was going except that it was out, and that was good enough for him. Out of the room and up an adjoining flight of stairs, he found himself on yet another open-air terrace but for once blessedly alone. He leaned as well as he could against the railing – which was rather precariously at best, considering they were built for folk another two feet taller than him at least.

What had Gandalf gotten them into? What about this mission of theirs was so perilous that even Lord Elrond – a veteran of many wars and ill-conceived adventures – would try to dissuade them? Wasn’t the dragon thought to be dead? Wasn’t that what he was brought along for – to make sure that he was indeed dead before they entered the mountain? What was all this nonsense about hidden doors, and Durin’s day, and time-limits?

Why was nothing as simple as he had thought it would be?

It was with carefully restrained exasperation that he recognized the sound of approaching boots. Why Fíli or Kíli would choose now of all times to pester him he could hardly guess, but he knew that they’d soon get bored of sitting out in the night air for a think. They were not the contemplative sort and he could only hope that they’d decide to go away rather than to pester him.

He was distracted from his unwanted visitor by the sound of an approaching conversation below. No sooner had he elected to relocate himself to avoid eavesdropping when he saw Gandalf and Lord Elrond come around a bend in the garden, quietly arguing with each other – though not quietly enough.

“Of course, I was going to tell you,” Gandalf said, in a way that meant that he most certainly was not going to tell him if he could have helped it, “I was only waiting for the chance. And really, I think you can trust that I know what I’m doing.”

A statement which any Hobbit could tell you was nothing but balderdash and hogwash. Where Gandalf went trouble followed and half of the time even he could not tell you how it had happened.

“Do you?” Asked Elrond, not at all convinced, “That dragon has slept for sixty years. What would happen if your plan should fail, if you wake the beast?”

Wake the beast? What had happened to the portents? The assurance that the beast would likely be dead? It had not been seen in sixty odd years, surely it would have starved to death by now, a creature as massive as all that.

“But if we succeed!” Cried Gandalf, as if he had known all along that the Dragon could not possibly be dead – and maybe he had, for he knew many things that he did not share, even with those that had every right to know, “If the dwarves take back the mountain, our defenses in the East will be strengthened.”

Defenses? Defenses against what? There was hardly anything more dangerous to the East past Erebor than what lay in the Wilderland before it.

(Except there were worse things brewing far to the East, weren’t there? Things that ought not exist in this age, things that were cold and dark and awful. The fortress no longer lay abandoned and perhaps neither did the forgotten lands to the far East.)

“It is a dangerous move, Gandalf,” Lord Elrond cautioned, swayed by Gandalf’s reasoning but still reluctant to allow such folly to pass.

“It is also dangerous to do nothing,” Gandalf replied with the same voice that he had used when he had told Bilbo that he would not find the world in his books or his maps, the same way that he had used to convince any number of well-bred lads and lasses to wander off into the unknown, “oh, come now, the throne of Erebor is Thorin’s birthright, what is it you fear?”

How about a great firedrake, for starters? Greatest calamity of our time, ring any bells? Honestly, Gandalf may not have much cause for fear but the rest of them were well within their rights to balk at such a thing. How he could carry on as if they were all nattering on about nothing Bilbo would never understand.

Boots shifted with a quiet scuff behind him, and finally he thought to turn to scold the nosy princelings, only to come up short when it was no mischief laden Prince that greeted him but a scowling King. Thorin glowered down at the arguing pair a moment longer before he glanced at Bilbo briefly, a curt nod all the greeting that he offered before he once more focused on the conversation below.

Not knowing what else to do, and terribly embarrassed for Thorin to catch him eavesdropping like a naughty faunt, Bilbo too turned back to the pair of them, ears burning in shame.

“Have you forgotten,” Lord Elrond asked sharply, “a strain of madness runs deep in that family.”

Bilbo felt Thorin recoil at the accusation, and he had to tamp down the urge to turn around and offer comfort. He knew that Thorin would not want such a thing – would see nothing but misplaced pity in the action, when all Bilbo would have offered was care.

“His Grandfather lost his mind, his Father succumbed to the same sickness,” Elrond said these words as if they pained him to utter, as if the fall of Thorin’s line was somehow his fault, as if that guilt was his to bear alongside the grief of losing a friend, “can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

Thorin? They thought that he of all people would fall to madness? Stubborn, head strong, holier-than-thou Thorin? Thorin who had lost so much, and fought horrid battles, and led his people through poverty and ruin to come out safe on the other side. Thorin who was not satisfied with such a shadow of the life he had once lived – safe and simple as it was – and had risked it all to return his people to their homeland? Not a chance, not at all.

Not if Bilbo had a say in the matter.

But Gandalf was silent a moment too long and something like fear settled deep in Bilbo’s heart though he did not know why.

“Gandalf, these decisions do not rest with us alone,” Elrond said, calmly, just this side of comforting, “it is not up to you or me to redraw the map of Middle-Earth.”

“With or without our help these dwarves will march on the mountain.” Gandalf spoke lowly, warningly, as if all of this was out of his hands now, as if this whole venture that he had begun and planned and nurtured had snowballed so drastically out of his control that there wasn’t a thing to be done for it. “They’re determined to reclaim they’re homeland.”

They continued their journey farther along the path, nearing a pavilion too far to see clearly inside of, though he was certain that he saw shapes moving around in there.

“I do not believe Thorin Oakenshield feels that he’s answerable to anyone,” Gandalf said haughtily, and Bilbo almost snorted at the unfortunate truth of the fact, “Nor for that matter am I.” 

“It is not me you must answer to,” Lord Elrond replied, almost apologetically as they entered the pavilion. All at once all sound was smothered, as if a door had been closed behind them though there was none to see. Bilbo could no longer hear their words; not even muffled murmurs met his ears. The garden had become silent, only the sounds of the night and his and Thorin’s breathing to break the silence.

(Magic. It must have been. Though the whole of the valley was practically smothered in the stuff and he could hardly tell one enchantment from another.)

Realizing that there was nothing for it, he turned to Thorin, ready to defend himself against an accusing dwarf but was met instead with carefully averted eyes and a stormy brow.

Thorin’s face was carefully blank as it often was but Bilbo had become a fair hand at reading the emotions that lay beneath his stoic façade. Thorin’s brow was furrowed in what might have been mistaken for anger if it weren’t for the hesitant tilt of his frown. Bilbo wished that Thorin would look at him, not least because aversion did not suit Thorin at all, but also because it would be the best way to tell what odd mood had taken the dwarf.

“So,” he began, tactless and desperate to break the heavy silence, to wake the usual pride and temper that he had come to expect from the dwarf, “we’ll be off in the morning, shall we?”

Thorin looked at him at last, gaze sharp and displeased. Something about the turn of his lips made Bilbo think that he had said the wrong thing – only that he could see no _right_ thing to say.

What was right about any of this? Nothing was right about a displaced people, nothing was right about a boy watching his family grow ill and fade, nothing was right about expecting him to follow after them and yet offering no reasonable way to stop it. There was nothing right to say because there was no way to right such an awfully wrong situation.

(Bilbo wondered briefly how much of the weight Thorin bore was truly his to carry – how much had come from a crown and what else had come from his ghosts.)

“Ah, only that I’d heard as much from the others,” he tried to explain, but truly, he wasn’t entirely sure what it was he was trying to get at. Thorin would not accept comfort and he would not accept condolences and Bilbo had nothing else to offer but niceties, “and, well, I can’t imagine you’ll want to take breakfast with Lord Elrond after all that nonsense – terribly awkward, that, I should think.”

He knew a thing or two about people spreading gossip about you and your family behind your back. He knew the protocol for such things – you either raised a Sackville-Baggins fuss on the spot or you smiled politely at the table the next morning and asked them to pass the jam. The window for the former was closing and Bilbo knew enough about dwarrow to know that their pride would not condone the latter.

(And even he found himself annoyed at the two immortals – talking about Thorin and his family as if he hadn’t sat at the table with them mere hours before, as if they could not speak to him of his own business instead of whispering to each other like nattering gossips.

As if Throin’s madness was a forgone conclusion and not an unfortunate possibility. Frankly, Bilbo was more concerned about the Dragon. And the Orcs. And the distinct lack of second breakfast he knew was on the horizon.)

“Nonsense?” Thorin asked, lowly, warningly, and alright, yes, that might not have been the best phrase to use but he was rather out of his depth, here. What was he to say to console someone who did not want consoling, someone who loathed the very sight of him?

(And he did, Bilbo knew that he did, because in all his life no one had spoken to him so coldly and looked at him with such burning anger. Not ever, and Bilbo wished that Thorin could find at least one admirable thing about him to ease this journey along. They could not go the whole way across Arda[v] at each other’s throats. Bilbo would not make it.

He might not make it anyway.)

Thorin did not want comfort but perhaps Bilbo could offer understanding – at least, of a sort.

“We’ve all got family secrets, haven’t we?” He said, and no, no, that was a little too close to home for him, too near the root of his anxieties on this venture to bear, “It’s not proper of him to go about airing someone else’s dirty laundry like that, not at all. Who hasn’t got a relative who’s gone a bit odd?” And that was true enough. Tooks were born half-mad to begin with and Baggins’ were wound so tightly that more than a few had cracked before they’d met their end. “Certainly, I’ve enough of them, myself. No shame in that. No shame in someone you love being sick, not that I can see, anyway.”

(Bilbo knew this, told it to himself every day, every time he looked at his father’s empty rocking chair and wondered at the dust over the cushion. He could not bear to use it and neither could he bear to clean it and sometimes he wondered if it was similar to how Bungo felt after Belladonna had died – when he could not bear to keep company, when he could not bear the lonely nights, or the quiet days, when he could not bear to eat, when he could not bear to leave his bed.

When he could not bear to speak to his son because he was so very much like his Belladonna.)

Thorin watched him for a moment, eyes flickering along with the nervous flutters of Bilbo’s own hands and Bilbo hated this most, he thought. More than Thorin’s temper, or his stubbornness, or his cruelty, Bilbo hated when Thorin would stand there, silent as stone, and just look at him. He hated the way it made him feel vulnerable, the way that he would sweat and flush, and had no idea at all what it was that the dwarf was thinking. Bilbo knew that he shouldn’t care, had spent a very large portion of his life working not to care about what others thought of him, but by Yavanna something about Thorin made him care an awful lot.

(As if, if he was in Thorin’s good graces, he might finally amount to something worthwhile.

All that Gandalf said that he was and more. He had said that there was a great deal to Bilbo, once, had said that there was more than he himself knew but Bilbo did know – had always known. Whatever there was to him amounted too little to nothing of any worth – certainly not enough to impress a King.)

Something in Thorin’s gaze shifted then, icy eyes dipping toward sapphire and, carefully, he reached out a hand, as if Bilbo was a startled animal he was unwilling to scare away. He gave Bilbo plenty of time to move away, to voice his displeasure, but Bilbo knew that this might be that first hurdle toward some manner of comradery between them. A dwarven practice – common as headbutts, and back slaps, and shoulder punching, but deliberately announced and softened for Hobbit-size.

If Bilbo hadn’t been so elated at the thought, he might have thought enough to warn Thorin away.

As it was, the searing pain that ripped through him at the contact was enough to force him to wrench out of Thorin’s reach, breath harsh and stuttering at the flare of heat that throbbed outward from his damaged skin. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he clenched his teeth harshly.

Somehow though, it was the surprise-turned-horror on Thorin’s face that caused him to panic. On some level he had been braced for the flash-pain of his shoulder all day, waiting for the slightest jostling to send flares racing along his arm. He had not been braced for the look on the dwarf’s face when Bilbo tore away from him – had not ever thought to see it there.

“Oh, no, I’m – oh, I’m so sorry, Thorin,” he hurried to say, realizing quite abruptly that Thorin hadn’t noticed his pain, and saw only rejection and overreaction to a well-meaning gesture – the first kindness that he had ever granted him, “it’s just that I’m a bit bruised from this morning, is all. I didn’t mean to be so rude about it, forgive me.”

Thorin’s horror melted into confusion, which looked so like anger on the dwarf that Bilbo had to take a moment to really think on it before he was certain. Blue eyes roved him obviously – calculating and assessing and looking for an explanation that he could have gotten more easily by simply asking Bilbo himself.

Why did dwarrow never bother to simply ask?

Confusion melted into suspicion, suspicion into understanding, understanding into pale-faced regret. Throin’s eyes locked onto his shoulder and all at once Bilbo realized that Thorin hadn’t a clue as to how roughly he’d moved him about earlier – hadn’t realized he’d nearly dislocated his arm and almost swept him bodily off his feet more than once.

“Your shoulder,” he said, stilted and disbelieving, “your left.”

Bilbo did not know what to say, how to make Thorin stop looking so guilty and disturbed, had no clue how he could downplay the situation without setting off his temper. At a loss, and feeling more than a little guilty himself, he could do nothing but nod his confirmation.

Thorin stepped back hastily, dwarven boots loud and violent on the night air, and Bilbo winced at the sound, at the audible dissolvement of what might have been the start of something good between the two of them at last.

(If only Bilbo had kept up, if Thorin hadn’t had to drag him along, if only he’d gotten it treated earlier, or stepped back a moment sooner, or held back his reaction, if only, if only.)

“Forgive me,” He said, deep voice rough and lacking all the usual grace that Bilbo had come to expect, “I did not- I would-,” and before this conversation, Bilbo would never have thought to hear this dwarf stutter over his own tongue, “I should not have handled you so roughly, it was careless of me, my apologies, Master Baggins. It will not happen again. I swear it.”

Bilbo wished that he didn’t sound so sincere. Wished he didn’t sound so guilty, as if he’d gone and put Bilbo’s very life in danger with only that one ill placed shove.

(And another part of him certainly would like to contest that part about ‘handling him’, as if he was cargo or some doll to be led around with care.)

Still Thorin looked so contrite and horrified that Bibo felt that he had to say something – anything – to alleviate his distress. This might have been the most emotion that Thorin had ever shown him, but he could not say that he was glad to see it.

“Oh, no, that’s- that’s quite alright, Thorin, I’m not upset,” he began, and while he was, in fact, rather upset, he was not upset at Thorin -just because of him, though he doubted he could properly articulate the difference to the dwarf, “it was an accident, I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”

And he did in fact know that. Thorin was callous, and cold, and hotheaded in turns but he was also noble, and considerate, and attentive to those he cared for. He would never cause harm to another unprovoked, not knowingly, of this Bilbo was sure. While Thorin was distrustful and quick to judge one’s character, Bilbo knew that dislike alone was not enough to earn his wrath. Any harsh words between them had been the product of presumption and cheek on Bilbo’s part and a stubborn formality and prejudice on Thorin’s – and of course the clashing of two persons of rather staunch opinions and quick trigger tempers.

(Bilbo had always been a grouchy little Hobbit – quicker to temper than even most other Tooks. While his manners were impeccable it was not difficult to sour his good mood and busy-bodies and better-than-thous were quick to jump on such an odd personality. Bilbo resented the implication that Hobbits should always be jolly and full of good cheer – certainly it was a tall order when at tea at the Sackville-Baggins estate.)

The fact that Thorin seemed to doubt Bilbo’s words only made the whole situation seem that bit more ridiculous. For one thing, he wasn’t all that badly injured – yes, the skin was tender to the touch and the muscle would need time before he dared do anything strenuous but it was hardly the worst bruising he’d ever gotten.

(Being a wild young thing, he’d gotten into his fair share of scrapes and even a few scuffles. Still he did bruise easily, easier than any average Hobbit would, he knew. He supposed it had something to do with his paler complexion – being a Fallowhide by majority and all – or maybe he was just soft-hided. Dear old Holman[vi] never seemed to have these problems when he had minded Bilbo for his mother, following along on all of his childhood ventures– but then, he was a Gamgee, son of a strong Harfoot blooded family – more sturdily built than Bilbo and with darker skin that he never had to worry about crisping in the summer sun. Not like Bilbo who had to wear his mother’s cream and a wide-brimmed hat if they were to play for more than an hour.)

“Honestly, be reasonable,” he said, frankly tired of the guilty fretting the dwarf was still working over, “if I pitched a fit every time I bumped into or tripped over something, I’d never get anything done! I’m not ignorant to the fact that I’m a klutz, I’ll have you know.”

A fact that was not usually so much of a bother when he was safe at home where all the paths were well trodden and well known, but had become a nuisance out in the wild where roads were very seldom marked and always a mystery to him. It didn’t help that they tried to avoid well-travelled roads as much as possible, their quest being a secretive one, and all that. So, on top of missing every inn from Hobbiton to Rivendell they’d missed any chance of Bilbo recovering his bearings. He’d given up being frustrated over his own clumsiness after he’d tripped over the twentieth root and the twelfth rock.

Thorin blinked at him silently for a moment, stern face blank in his confusion before he repeated Bilbo dumbly.

“You mean to say that you are you wounded so easily?” He said, incredulous and – much to Bilbo’s surprise – lacking in all of the mocking that Bilbo had thought would come after such an admission.

And while he was pleasantly surprised by the lack of scorn he was still peeved by the disbelief in his voice, as if such a thing could only be a joke - surely Bilbo wasn’t as weak as that? Well, for one thing, Bilbo would hardly qualify some harsh bruising as a wound, and for another Thorin would never have heard a peep about it if he’d kept his big old dwarf paws to his own person.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Oh, by the Lady, look, would you?” He said, perhaps a bit waspishly – perhaps it would do better to simply show Thorin than to explain it to him.

He bent and rolled up one of his trouser cuffs, showing just enough of his calf to illustrate his point before looking back up to the dwarf. He was surprised to find the King looking away pointedly, sharp cheekbones a dusted rouge and mouth tight and grim.

(It was a charming expression, and Bilbo found himself softening ever so slightly to the taciturn dwarf. After all, the daft King had gotten himself so worked about such a little thing for Bilbo’s sake.)

He cleared his throat expectantly and waited for Thorin to turn and take in the bruises mottling his shin before he spoke.

“You, see? Hardly anything new, Your Highness.”

And still Thorin looked confused and – to Bilbo’s frustration – freshly distressed at he sight of such a small discomfort.

“You,” he said with a thick voice, before he swallowed harshly, “you did not say anything.”

“Say something?” Bilbo asked, frankly baffled at the fairly obvious question, “Say what? ‘Oh, poor me, I banged my shin off of a log again, one of you will have to carry me, so sorry for the inconvenience,’” he snorted in disdain at the notion, “I think not, thank you.”

His shoulder smarted something awful as he moved to stand straighter, and he couldn’t help but hiss at the pain of it. When he refocused on Thorin it was to find him a step closer than he had been and staring at Bilbo with something fragile and unknown in his eyes.

“You should have said something,” he said, quiet and so clearly upset and Bilbo could not for the life of him imagine why he would react so on behalf of someone he loathed so thoroughly, “Óin will have some salve to ease the pain and speed the healing.”

He looked so earnest then, blue eyes deep and open for the first time since Bilbo had known him. Open enough to make Bilbo truly believe that Thorin wanted him to heal quickly, wanted to spare him even this minor pain, though he couldn’t imagine why. Surely Thorin himself had suffered much worse, had loved those that had suffered much worse.

But then maybe this was duty and honor and all those lovely things that made Thorin very much a King even though he bore no crown. A King who cared for his subjects, for his people, and now the only people he had were so mismatched and unknown to each other that he hardly knew what to do with them.

(And maybe this was him finally seeing Bilbo as a member of his Company, as one of his people, just as Bilbo already saw Thorin as one of his though he knew it was a foolish thing to feel, true as it may be.)

“Alright,” he said, sighed, and really, he needed to stop doing that, but the thought of Thorin feeling even a fraction of what Bilbo felt for him made his chest ache, “alright, I’ll have him look at them tonight. Better to get something done for it now than when we are once again on the road.”

Something tense and distraught in Thorin relaxed then, and his face was gentle as he answered, “And your shoulder.”

Bilbo’s heart hurt and the air was heavy, and he did not know what to do with this, this nameless thing that Thorin seemed to be offering without realizing that he was offering it. This thing that Bilbo could not see but could feel and he wanted it, whatever it was, and the fierceness of it scared him.

“Yes, yes, my blasted shoulder,” he said with a nervous chuckle, because he had to say something, he had to get out of whatever tension was between them, he had to.

Whatever it was did break and Thorin’s expression retreated into its stern solemnity as he gestured for Bilbo to head back inside. Despite himself he grew annoyed at the ease with which the dwarf could recover from, well, whatever that was even as Bilbo still felt all twisted up inside.

Still, he made his way down the steps and back to the shared room. He ignored the blooms of blue azaleas[vii] that he left behind and made a point to find Óin’s bedroll before he settled himself.

(Responsibility was not friendship and Bilbo would not allow himself to hope otherwise.)

It was only after being lathered in some very foul-smelling salve, roused from his uncomfortable rest at some ungodly hour, and ordered to make ready to leave that Bilbo remembered why he and Thorin didn’t get along in the first place.

Largely because the dwarf was an incomprehensible ass more than half of the time.

Here they were, safe, well-fed, with a roof over their heads for the first time in three months and he would not grant Bilbo the right to a proper bed let alone a full night’s rest. Bilbo was very near to snapping at the next dwarf to cross his path by the time he was suitably roused and readied for travel.

It just so happened that the next dwarf to approach was young Ori, who as a rule was impossible to be cross with by virtue of an inherent sweetness that Bilbo would not have expected in any dwarf, and who had two suitably terrifying brothers who would set straight anyone who was fool enough to try.

“Master Baggins?” he asked, timid and unsure, as if he might somehow startle Bilbo by speaking.

Really, Bilbo couldn’t find it in him to snap at the boy – and boy he was, just having come of age in time to join this Quest.

“Yes, Master Ori?” He replied, just as polite, if only to see the way that the young dwarf blushed and smiled at the title.

“I – uh, I was – was wondering if you’d be willing to trade?” He asked, eyes skittering nervously around the path that would lead them out of elven lands, “Trade, uh, information, if you’d like.”

“Information?” Bilbo asked, honestly confused by the offer. What would he have that would interest a well-learned dwarf like Ori?

“Oh! Not to be impertinent, or – or in any way rude, I don’t mean to pry,” he stuttered, accent thick and hasty over his tumbling words, “it’s just that Kí- I, uhm, I mean, the Princes had said you told them something of Hobbits and well, I – well, I’d never even really heard of a Hobbit before this quest, and I’d never read anything about them, not once – and I’ve read an awful lot about a great many things, Master Baggins!”

Bilbo couldn’t help but chuckle fondly when Ori seemed to realize himself and promptly snapped is mouth shut and ducked his scruffy head in embarrassment.

“Well, alright,” he said once it seemed clear that Ori would not begin to speak again unprompted, “I’d be glad to share with you any amount of Hobbit-lore, though I fear there’s not much to tell. We’re a quiet folk, Master Ori, and I doubt that dwarrow care overmuch for agricultural advice.”

“Agricultural advice?” Asked Ori, nervous eyes meeting Bilbo’s at last, and the sight made him feel somehow accomplished.

“Oh yes, Hobbits grow things, it’s what we do,” he said, nodding along to his own thoughts absently, “one could say it’s what we were made to do.”

“Like your Craft?” Ori asked, curious and thoughtful.

“A craft?” Bilbo repeated, confused, only to frown when Ori seemed once again to realize his own words and looked around nervously, shamefaced and frantic.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Master Baggins, but I – I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not my decision to make, telling you about things like that – oh, I’ve gone and done it, now – I’m so sorry, Master Baggins,” he stuttered, wringing his mitten covered hands and staring fearfully at the dirt beneath his boots.

“It – It’s alright, Master Ori, it’s quite alright, I won’t ask again,” he assured him, confused and frankly too annoyed at large to bother being upset by more dwarven secrets, “tell me something else then. This is a trade isn’t it?”

The young dwarf looked up at him then, teary eyed and hopeful.

“It is,” he said after a moment, eyes searching Bilbo’s quietly before he finally relaxed and began to walk more naturally once again, “but I fear there isn’t much that I’m able to tell you, Master Baggins.”

“That’s alright,” Bilbo said with a warm smile, even though it wasn’t really, even though it stung to be mistrusted and so blatantly considered an outsider even by someone so innocent and trusting as this, “tell me something else then – no dwarrow-lore, just something that you’ve read, something you’ve enjoyed.”

It wasn’t a fair trade, exactly, but Bilbo was a scholar at heart and Ori seemed to be one of the more like minded of the Company. Bilbo would have liked to discuss any number of topics with him and Balin and maybe even Óin, if he ever got a better ear-trumpet. But there never seemed to be time and even if there was, Bilbo did not know if he would have the nerve to try. Approaching Ori was one thing – he was younger in mind if not in years and less intimidating by far, but Balin and Óin, well, they were far older and far wiser than Bilbo, masters of their own specialties where he could claim mastery of nothing at all.

What would one well-read Hobbit have to say that would interest a venerated healer or an accomplished diplomat? Nothing, nothing at all.

“Ah, well, I’m not – I’m not entirely certain what kind of things you’d like to hear Master Baggins,” Ori replied nervously, always nervously, and Bilbo wondered if Ori would ever grow out of it – if one day he’d be as self-assured as his brothers were, albeit in their own ways.

“Oh, anything will do,” Bilbo reassured him, honestly not minding the chance of whatever topic the young dwarf would choose, “I’ve been terribly bored for lack of a good story as of late, though, if you’ve any to share.” And this was true as the dwarves seemed to lack any truly good tales to tell that did not involve brawls or battle or conquest. Certainly, it seemed that only these were deemed safe to tell around their self-imposed interloper. Aside from the tale of Thorin’s grief and victory in the battle of Azanulbizar[viii], no dwarf would say a word of their obviously long and glorious history, not a mention of the tales and epics that so clearly shaped their ideals and drove their sensibilities.

“A- a story? I’ve never told a story before,” Ori said, characteristically uncertain though Bilbo did not miss the interest that was hidden beneath his shaggy bangs.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to try my boy,” he encouraged, smile more genuine this time. Bilbo had always been a rather accomplished storyteller himself, delighting his mother with all manner of whimsical fantasies in his youth and captivating fauntlings the Shire over in more recent days.

(It was one of the very few traits that had his Aunts tittering over what a good father he’d make one day – not that he thought any of them had held their breath on that thought after he’d turned fourty.)

Ori’s nervous brown eyes positively lit up at the encouragement and Bilbo was pleased to hear the excitement in his voice as he launched into the telling of some tale that he’d read who knew how many years ago. Bilbo knew this story – the tale of the Willow-maid, though it was told differently from how he remembered it from the Shire. For one thing, he couldn’t recall anyone waxing poetic about the beauty of the maid’s beard any of the times he’d heard it before, and certainly he had never heard the story told not of a Willow-maid but of a Crystal-maid – or, well, Crystal-dam, he supposed.

Still, Ori’s voice grew stronger as he carried on, and Bilbo felt the same magic of old surround them as he had every other time that he’d heard this tale. He smiled as Ori began to gesture faintly with his hands, losing himself to the story and finally finding his rhythm. He was still clumsy, forgetting parts of the story and going back to them out of order, tripping over parts that he couldn’t recall quite clearly, but he was excited and as relaxed as Bilbo had ever seen him.

(Bilbo would count that as a win. Not that he was keeping track mind you, but every dwarf that he grew to befriend felt like some kind of victory to him, some grand gift that he had not ever truly expected to receive.)

Soon enough Kíli and Fíli had fallen back to walk beside them, intelligent eyes sparkling in interest as they listened, interjecting every now and again with questions and Bilbo was pleased to see that Ori did not lose his place in the story while answering them. He may have some talent for this, and Bilbo wondered if he would have time enough to coach him into a proper tale teller before the next threat to their lives approached.

The thought sobered him from his fond contentment, and he found himself wondering if the Willow-maid felt as resigned to her fate as he was growing to be.

(Did the Crystal-dam follow her intended out of her cave, knowing that she would die, and feel as numb to it as he did? It was not that he was certain that he would die, only that he was not certain that he would make it home. And for a Hobbit – for a Shireling born and bred of that land, who had been nourished by the very lifeblood of that Earth – to fear that he would never again taste that bitter-sweet brush of spring, was very nearly the same thing.

And yet he could not bear to turn back, could not bring himself to run back to Yavanna’s cradle, though the child in him wailed too. He would not leave his dwarrow to the hands of fate – not without his own luck to turn the tide in their favor. Hobbits were lucky, and superstitious, and he was the fourteenth member – and thirteen was an ill-fated number. He would not chance even superstition to lay her hands upon his Company, though he could not say why.)

“Be on your guard,” Rang out Thorin’s voice, clear and deep, resonating off of the stone of the cliff face in a way that reaffirmed every notion that dwarrow belonged among the stone, just as surely as Hobbits belonged among the fields. If Bilbo feared losing his home, he could not fathom the terror of having already lost it – Thorin had been plucked from his lands long ago and he had not withered, he did not fade. Somehow, this gave Bilbo courage even if it did not lift his uncertainty. “We are about to step over the edge of the Wild. Balin, you know these paths; lead on.”

And so Balin did and they passed at last into Wilderland.

Bilbo found that it lived up to its name; though the way was not any less treacherous at the onset than it had been in Eriador, he soon found that rolling foothills gave way to steep gullies and treacherous bluffs – where once field had been aplenty now there was increasingly only scraggly forest and bush to be found.

They hiked for nearly that entire first day before finally settling in an exhausted huddle around a clearing among the rocks. Their path had led them up a craggy hill that quite dwarfed the Hill of Hobbiton. The night was disconcertingly quiet and chill – they had taken the North-east path, or at least one of the plethora of North-east paths that they might have taken. Bilbo could see some remnants of well-worn trails in the distance, some crossing west again and some leading into the North where good Hobbit sense told him not to wander. Why they took this vague and treacherous path was a question that nagged him with some frustration and eventually he found himself voicing his concerns – something he would not have done mere weeks ago.

“There are many paths that lead up into these mountains, and many passes over them,” Balin answered, wizened hands tending the low burning fire – it would not do to set a beacon ablaze out here in the open, “but most of these paths are cheats and deceptions. Most lead to nowhere and others only to a bad end.”

“Most of these paths,” Dwalin grumbled with a scoff from nearby, inspecting the blade of one of his axes and smirking something wicked, “are infested with evil things.”

“And dreadful dangers,” agreed Bofur, coming to sit beside Bilbo with a huff and a knock to his shoulder, “but you oughtn’t worry yourself ‘bout it, Bilbo. Gandalf’d have taken this pass a hundred times in his wanderin’; he’ll lead us true.”

Bilbo was not reassured. That was not to say that he did not trust Gandalf to lead them along safer paths, but even Bilbo knew that safer did not necessarily mean without danger. Gandalf had grown quiet on the exodus from Rivendell and Bilbo thought that it must have something to do with that meeting of his – that or he was uncertain about the path that lay ahead – or worse, both of these things at once. The dwarrow had spoken gaily of the passage through the mountains as they had passed through the valley but now that they had ascended the foothills of these ominous ranges they too seemed to sense the enclosing wariness.

Bilbo thought that these dwarrow must not have crossed these mountains for a very long time, and he could see that the sight of them in the distance brought something heavy to many of their hearts. The Company grew uneasy and Bilbo grew afraid – even the good plans of wise wizards may go astray sometimes when one is off on a dangerous adventure over the Edge of the Wild.

(The Earth here felt different – it felt suspicious and secretive in a way that he had never known. Untrusting and ill-used, it had closed itself off and he could hardly even feel it, here beneath this barren landscape where even the brush and the lichen struggled to grow. How had this happened? Who had caused such fear and hatred to fall over this land – why did the rock smell of blood?)

The night passed as it always did, though many of the Company were more reticent than usual. Dwalin sharpened his axes methodically but Bilbo knew that his mind was far away, flint eyes hard and distant. He would have asked the elder of The In brothers but restrained himself as Balin watched the rocks with an absent eye – clearly not expecting anything to appear but unable to keep himself from looking anyway. Bífur stared determinedly through the shadows, grizzled face in a mulish line where it was normally cheerful and chatty – if unintelligible. Gloín though spoke loudly, boisterous in his ribbing of his brother as though in direct defiance of the unusual hush. The other dwarrow seemed unwilling to break this odd mood, cautious and respectful of the strangeness of their peers.

Bilbo had grown close to many of these dwarrow – but none that seemed to be ill-at ease. They would not welcome his prying he knew – not even kind Balin or cheerful Bífur. Whatever this was it was private and though he did not understand, and he ached to ease their minds he knew that it would be a very ill-advised venture.

(Dwarrow were private and proud creatures and they would not want some ignorant foreigner doubting their mettle or coddling them like children.)

So, he said nothing and carried on as if he could not see the effect of these cold hills on his companions. He cooked supper with Bombur who was, thankfully, exactly as cheerful and talkative as he had always been and after he retired to tell stories to the Princes, as he had most nights since that spat with their uncle.

(He wondered what the boys thought of that, if they ever thought about it at all, if they kept replaying it over again in their heads as he did, trying to spot when that anger had sprouted up between the King and the Hobbit – where had that fire bloomed from? To this day Bilbo did not know; he only knew that annoyance had shifted to burning anger the moment those cold eyes had met his.)

He had grown bored and, frankly, uncomfortable with telling them tales of his life in the Shire and had quickly decided that spinning fanciful tales for them would be just as well – after all, grown though they may be, they loved a good story enough for him to test out his best. His most riveting stories – as voted on by a council of raucous fauntlings three summers ago – had not yet quenched the dwarrow’s thirst and every night they kept coming back to him for more. Tonight though, they had brought company. Ori sat between the brothers, nervous eyes uncomfortable with the rough manhandling he’d suffered from the Princes that led him there, though Bilbo did not miss the mirth in the twitch of his lips. He had suspected that the three were friends or near enough – they were all around the same age and had grown up together in the Blue Mountains, after all. Bilbo had learned how rare dwarrowlings were and supposed that it was no wonder that they would have found playmates in each other

(And Yavanna knew that neither Prince acted royal enough to cause concern for playing with a well-mannered common boy.)

So, he spun his tale, and delighted in the rapt attention of his audience, even more so when the Ur family fell into the mix. Bofur and Bombur wandered over to his side, quiet and attentive even as they jostled for a seat close to the warmth of the fire. Eventually even Bífur became absorbed in the story, hard eyes softening into the warm brown that Bilbo had always known them to be. He relaxed, slowly, without realizing that he had ever been tense and Bilbo felt unexpected relief when he barked out a laugh at one of Bilbo’s well-timed jokes.

Time passed and the tale ended, as all stories must do, and silence fell with a gentler hush then it had before. The audience returned to their own bedrolls with hearty compliments, warm smiles, and several friendly back slaps that Bilbo managed to smile through despite the pain.

(His shoulder was infinitely better than it had been only a day before – praise be to Óin and his ointments – but it was still aching and sore and he knew that the imprint of a hard palm stood stark on his skin.)

Bilbo too went to his place and lay down, burrowing deep into the blankets – provided for his health by a scolding Dori who had been horrified to find Bilbo shivering beneath his coat naught a few hours ago. He had given him a good scolding and the blanket and had called it payment for indulging his baby brother.

Comfortable as it was and warm as it made him feel, both inside and out, Bilbo could not find any sleep. He supposed that it was the hardness of the ground, cushioned by grass or growth, or perhaps the encroaching chill that he had not expected to feel so soon after midsummer. He supposed it may have been the volume of Bombur’s snoring, or the murmuring of Ori in his sleep, or the way that Thorin tapped his fingers against his brigandine as he sat at watch.

The tapping was muffled by the leather which backed the metal scales of his armor but somehow Bilbo found himself focusing on each gentle click. Eventually, he grew tired of feigning sleep and sat up to face the fire with a sigh. Thorin looked up at the movement, sapphire eyes tracking the motion as Bilbo drew his new blanket around his shoulders. Something displeased bent his brow and Bilbo couldn’t even bring himself to hazard a guess at what he could have done this time. The dwarf eventually rose from his seat and walked quietly over to stand beside Bilbo, steel tipped boots oddly silent on the ground.

“Why are you still awake,” he asked, quiet as to not disturb the others, “do not tell me that you are not weary from the journey.”

And Bilbo was; he was terribly tired, his feet ached to the bone and the soles had begun to callous over even more than they already had been. Hobbit feet did well in almost all terrain but here the rock grew sharp and rough and uneven with not even moss to soften the scraping. The Big Folk had a saying that if a Hobbit’s feet grew weary it was well past time to give up the chase. He didn’t know if this was a joke about their feet, or their stubbornness, or what have you, but he knew that it was quite accurate. He also knew that he would not, in fact, give up the chase because, apparently, he was an overly sentimental idiot.

“Well, of course I’m not,” he said, tired and annoyed at Thorin’s constant rudeness, “just a quick little jaunt into Wilderland – hardly enough to work up an appetite, you know.”

Thorin did not reply for a long moment and Bilbo was too stubborn to look up and gauge the depth of his scowl. He was spared the need as a moment later the dwarf carefully sat himself down by his side. He went about it slowly, always slowly with these things, giving Bilbo all the time to retreat that he could, and it softened whatever annoyance he felt just as it had that night on the terrace. He settled with all the rattle and rustle of his many layers - shirt, tunic, coat, brigandine, and surcoat lined with fur. Bilbo had wondered why all his dwarrow wore so many layers but as the wind ripped through his bones he understood. The nights would only grow more bitter from here, he was sure.

“Something troubles you, then,” Thorin said, or rather asked though it did not sound like a question to Bilbo.

“Why yes,” he said with a sarcastic huff, “but it seems that I am never in any shortage of things to worry myself over. Not these days.”

Thorin was silent at that and Bilbo could not bear it.

(This silent staring that Thorin always did that seemed to make all of Bilbo’s worst parts writhe beneath his skin, eager to rise to the surface, to be seen, and Bilbo could not allow that, not here with Thorin who already hated Bilbo and had only seen the most mundane parts of him.)

“Why did you come?” Thorin asked, voice deep and quite and Bilbo could not hear any disdain in it though he thought there should be with a question like that to a Hobbit like him.

“What?” He asked, because he was tired and even at his best, he had never trusted his tongue around this dwarf.

Thorin frowned at him heavily, as if annoyed with Bilbo for being confused. To be fair though, Thorin had never seemed particularly concerned as to the why or how he had been saddled with a Hobbit only that he had been and would rather like to be rid of him.

“Why did you come along on this quest?” He clarified; sapphire eyes curious where Bilbo had only thought to see disdain. “You have never left your Shire, let alone wandered as far as this – I had thought that you would stay behind, that night. But you changed your mind. Why?”

And this was a question that Bilbo had not thought to ask himself before – he knew why he stayed but he had not thought on why he had come along at the start. He could have given any number of answers – Old blood, Took blood, boredom, the emptiness of Bag End with only one Hobbit to tend it where there was always meant to be many. The loneliness of having family, having neighbors, but having no true friends, not really. No one to talk to about his grief or his worries, no one who would listen to him ramble on about his books or his maps. The bite of feeling the very soil of Hobbiton push him out, onward and away, whispering for him to run as fast he could, to go find whatever it was that he was chasing. The warmth that he felt in his smial filled with thirteen dwarrow even as he fumed at them all the while. The chill that had settled in when they had left. The way that Thorin had sung that night, the chords of his harp, the sorrow and the uncomfortable dreams that followed, the sense of injustice and the burning need to do something about it. The Took fire and the Baggins sensibility and Bilbo’s own loneliness.

“I don’t really know,” he said instead, unable to look at Thorin when he felt so dishonest, though it was not necessarily a lie, “before I knew how or why, I was out my door with contract in hand and not a handkerchief to my name.” He forced out a painful little chuckle and still refused to look at the dwarf.

Thorin shifted next to him, and Bilbo thought that this might be the closest they had ever been. He could feel the heat radiating from him and had to consciously choose not to lean into it; the air was chill, and he wore so few layers compared to Thorin but somehow the dwarf radiated enough heat to warm them both.

“When you return you will have enough gold to buy yourself an entire room of kerchiefs, if that is your desire,” Thorin said with what Bilbo supposed was an attempt at a joke, though it sounded rather bitter and scathing to his ears. Thorin spoke as if he could not comprehend Bilbo’s infatuation with the things and with a level of mocking that immediately soured whatever fondness had him taken for the moment.

Still the mere idea of it, an entire room of Bag End filled to the broom with handkerchiefs, was just preposterous enough to force him to let out a laugh which he managed to smother mostly into his blanket.

“A whole room full? Now, what on Arda would I do with all of them?” He said, finally turning to face the reticent dwarf. “Or as much gold as they’d cost for that matter – why, the weight alone would make it near impossible to lug up the hill, let alone across the continent!”

Thorin blinked at him in surprise, blue eyes large and uncertain and Bilbo was taken by the sudden softness there – the way that hardened sapphire[ix] had shifted to forgot-me-not blue.

(Bilbo felt his heart speed up and his thoughts slow down and was enough of a Hobbit to admit to himself what had caused his chest to suddenly feel so unbearably tight.)

“You,” Thorin said, deep voice thick with something that Bilbo could not name, “you do not want the gold?”

“Gold?” Bilbo breathed back, voice deeper than he had meant it to be, “No. I was not badly off in Bag End; in fact, I had one of the better fortunes in all of the Shire. Not to boast.”

“If not for the gold,” Thorin replied, blue eyes searching Bilbo’s face for something, groeing ever bluer in the firelight, “then why did you come? What desire could possibly send you down this road? Surely, there was something that you had need of – enough to send you so far from home.”

“I wanted for nothing when you came to my door,” he answered, mind fuzzy with thoughts of forgot-me-nots and sapphire and desire, “except, perhaps for you to go away.”

“And now?” Thorin asked, leaning closer until Bilbo could almost feel the movement of his long hair as it fell between them.

“And now,” he breathed, moving back, away from the heat and the thoughts and the answer, “I do not know. I told you – I do not know how or why and yet,” he spread his arms wide, showing the whole of him and still creating more distance between them, “here I am.”

Thorin too moved back, confusion once more clouding his eyes, hiding away that dear softness and replacing it with the sharp cut of gems. He huffed something frustrated, something aggrieved, and shook his head. The firelight caught the streaks of silver in his hair and Bilbo could only think that these were all rather unfortunate circumstances.

(Had he been younger, had Thorin not been so closed off, had duty and destiny and decency not been in the way – had Bilbo braved at a bit more and hid a little less.)

“And here you are, indeed,” Thorin muttered, surly and rude as he had always been, as Bilbo often forgot he could be, and he used it as a reason to reaffirm his decision.

(Attraction was one thing, but compatibility was another. Bilbo was not one to shy away from a one-off tryst but, somehow, he knew that Thorin was. It would not due to cause such tension when they were already forced to interact as often as they were, when Thorin was already under so much stress, when Thorin already had reason enough to hate him.)

Bilbo smiled at him in agreement, beginning to pack his pipe simply for something to do with his hands.

Thorin stared at him a moment longer, eyed the way Bilbo filled his pipe, the way that he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulder, the way that he shivered despite it. He huffed aloud, and stood all at once, almost startling Bilbo except that somehow Bilbo knew he would leave.

“Óin’s ointment,” he said before he could catch himself, staring at Thorin’s back and watching the dwarf’s shoulders tense as he stopped walking, “works quite well. I’ll be good as new before the week’s out, I should think.”

Thorin did not turn around but when he nodded his head sharply Bilbo could not help his small smile.

“Good night, Master Baggins,” he said, and walked back to his post, back against the boulder and fingers tapping out a rhythm on the scales of his brigandine. Bilbo listened to it for a moment and let his pipe burn out. At last, he tried again for sleep and found that it came easier this time. He dreamt of forget-me-nots[x] and hollyhock[xi], he dreamt of Bag End with a great oak tree overhead, he dreamt of things he could not have, and the rumble of stone and laughter.

* * *

[i] Khuzdul: “How many gems have disappeared in your beard?”

[ii] Khuzdul: “Ach, one more, my gem.”

[iii] Mandos i.e. the realm of the dead, kept by the Valar Námo, Ruler of the Dead, who has commonly been referred to by the same name as his realm.

[iv] Norbury a.k.a Norbury of the Kings is the Hobbitish name for Fornost Erain (lit. _Northern Fortress of the Kings_ in Sindarin). It was the late capitol of the kingdom Arnor and after its fall the lesser kingdom of Arthedain. It was a stronghold of the Dunédain of the North. It was here that their High King resided and gave leave for the Hobbits to settle the shire. Many years later Fornost fell to the Witch King and the Hobbits, along with elves, Men of Gondor, and what remained of the northern men drove out the invading force, crushing Angmar though the Witch King escaped. Fornost would lay abandoned as a place of fear (often called Deadman’s Dike) until King Elessar (a.k.a Aragorn, a.k.a Strider, a.k.a Long-shanks, a.k.a That Shaggy Ranger) would later rebuild and resettle it.

[v] Arda being the name for Earth in Tolkien’s universe – Middle-earth being the continent on which our story takes place, located in the middle of the planet as one would guess.

[vi] Holman being the Baggins’ gardener before Hamfast Gamgee, Sam’s father. Holman was Sam’s grandfather’s cousin and had taken on Hamfast as an apprentice only recently when Bilbo took off for parts unknown.

[vii] Azaleas: ‘take care of yourself for me’ and fragile passion

[viii] The final battle of the six-year campaign of the War of Dwarves and Orcs, it was fought in the valley Azanulbizar (Dimrill Dale in Westron) beneath the East-gate of Khazad-dum and claimed the lives of thousands of dwarrow, including Thorin’s younger brother Frerin. Where in the movie it was Thrór that began the battle and was beheaded, in the books he was already dead. Also, Azog died in this version of events, his head being taken by an under-aged Dain Ironfoot.

[ix] Sapphire: wisdom, holiness, and Royalty

[x] Forget-me-not: true-love, memory

[xi] Hollyhock: ambition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All translation, once again, with credit due to The Dwarrow Scholar.
> 
> The Willow Maid being a very lovely ballad written by Erutan in the old Celtic style which tells the story of a willow-nymph who is pursued by a man who fell in love with her and refuses to listen to her refusal when he proposes. Eventually he cuts down her tree in the hopes that she would go with him now that she had no home - except that she dies almost as soon as he takes her out of the forest.
> 
> As you've probably noticed I'm mixing together book and movie cannon and will continue to do so. Though as a disclaimer I am going with the book version of the battle of Azanulbizar simply because it cements both Thorin and Dain as battle-hardened warriors in my mind. A six-year campaign is very different from one battle, no matter the size. To remedy this, in this story Azog here is Azog Jr. and I refuse to apologize for this very obvious cop-out.
> 
> Bilbo is the middle-aged tired gay man that we all need in our lives and I will not budge from this idea. Hobbits have a surprisingly sex-positive culture to my mind, and so Bilbo is very comfortable with feeling attracted to other people and I've never really seen him as the type to freak out over it. Thorin on the other hand is a deep-mineshaft romantic and I will die on this hill.
> 
> Dwalin and Nori have a thing in this story simply because 'the hot cop and the sexy criminal mastermind' is my thing and I refuse to not indulge myself.
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to ask and will answer as soon as I am able. Updates may take me awhile but I am continuing to work on this project, I promise!


	7. Over Hill and Under Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deep in the dark of Goblin Town.

“I do not know how or why and yet – here I am,” he said, as if that was all the explanation needed. As if that was any kind of answer and not yet another riddle to add onto the incomprehensible reasoning that had led them here.

There was no rhyme or reason, there was only this. There was a Hobbit. A Hobbit who had followed a people not his own deep into foul lands for a promised reward he did not even desire.

Thorin could not understand it. A baser part of him wanted to sneer that a Hobbit would not desire gold simply because he had no idea as to its worth, but Thorin knew this was not true. There had been finery in his home – silver spoons and gold inlaid candle sticks. Not enough to melt down into anything of worth but there, nonetheless. There had been silk waistcoats and velvet coats and finely embroidered furnishings. There had been a brooch laid on an end table, dusty and unused and inlaid with one negligible bit of emerald. He knew Hobbits were aware of gold and jewels, their beauty, their price. They simply had very little use of them it seemed. Indeed, as far as he had observed they preferred wood and earth as their ornaments over whatever the deep had to offer. Brass buttons and polished ash over the glint of metal and cut stone.

Thorin could not understand it.

Baggins did not want the treasure – did not want it for its beauty or its worth. He did not want it and somehow that knocked the breath from him. What did he want then? Why come all this way? Why when he was so out of his depth, when he suffered injury and hardship and the ill-will of those who had hired him?

Why when he would gain nothing but misery in the process?

And Thorin knew he could be maudlin, knew he tended to assume the worst of others, but Baggins had proven enough of his character for Thorin to see that he was not meant for travel. He bemoaned every shift in the weather, complained of sore feet when he was walking and a sore backside when he was riding. He was either heat-addled or frozen solid and to hear him tell it he had already faced more suffering in these last three months than any of his kind had suffered in the past age.

He was far too trusting; allowing himself to be pulled into the mischief of the others and the care of the Elves. He tumbled into troll meetings and argued with royalty and allowed himself to be led around by Wizards. He had no mind for the world outside of his own indulgence; no thought to anything but laughter and comfort and whatever fancy came to his mind. Duty meant nothing to him, honor even less.

And yet he kept silent in the face of injury to save his pride from those who would scorn him for being weak. How was it that he would not think to stop his whining about his handkerchief but would silence himself on something of actual concern?

Thorin could not understand it. Thorin could not understand him.

“And here you are, indeed,” he said, all the frustration of his thoughts slipping into his voice where he had not meant it to.

Something unreadable passed through Baggins’ expression then, but it was so foreign and fleeting that Thorin could not name it before he was smiling at him in some approximation of agreement. He began to absently fill his rounded little pipe and pulled the blanket Dori had made him closer around his shoulders to ward off the mountain chill.

Thorin could not say what had changed between Baggins and the rest of the Company. Where before there had been mild curiosity and indifference there now were open questions and teasing. Even shy young Ori had mustered the courage to approach the Hobbit. It would not be long now before the other brothers Ri followed the youngest, as they were ever wont to do. It seemed even Glóin had warmed to him. Thorin had heard the dwarf rambling about his family while the burglar had dished him his evening stew; it was the only subject he would speak on at length that did not involve coin, coffers, or arithmetic. The Hobbit had taken the chatter with good humor and a kind smile and Thorin supposed it would be enough to win over his soft-hearted cousin.

That did not explain the blanket.

It was gifted to him by Dori and obviously made by his own hand – the pattern of the weave too fine to be of any Manish make and out of place amongst their rough travel bedding.

Thorin was not wont to make assumptions of good dwarrow, certainly not dwarrow as upright and proper as Master Dori ever was, but he could see nothing of value the Hobbit could have traded to make the blanket anything less than a gift. And dwarrow did not give out gifts lightly, certainly not those which they had crafted. He was not sure why the thought that the two had grown so close bothered him, but he knew that it did, and it was enough to irk his short temper.

He stood and made to leave the confounding Hobbit to his own devices when he spoke up.

“Óin’s ointment,” he said, voice soft and hesitant as though he was not certain what he wanted to say, “works quite well. I’ll be good as new before the week’s out, I should think.”

Thorin thought back to that moment in the garden, where green eyes had watered in pain, thought of the sound of Baggins’ choked off gasp of surprise and hurt, and felt the relief of his words soothe something tense and unwanted in his mind.

“Good night, Master Baggins,” he murmured, once again left bereft of his anger in a way he was growing to expect after a conversation with the would-be burglar. He did not wait for a reply and returned to his post, intent on continuing his watch. He had uneasy dreams that night, though for once they were not wreathed in flame.

That would be the last night of good rest that they would get for a long time.

They continued their journey up into the Misty Mountains before dawn broke over the looming mountain ridges. The winds came shrill and bitter up here and Thorin did not like the look of the clouds on the other side of the summit. They maneuvered carefully along the narrow path which Gandalf had spoken of for hours, dodging the odd boulder that came galloping down the cliffs, loosed by the mid-summer sun on the snow. Often the sliding crash of danger was far enough away not to concern them but too often they were forced to the ground in order to avoid losing their heads. Conversation grew quiet and then ceased all together; their echoes had grown uncanny and twisted and the silence itself seemed to dislike being broken.

The Company’s morale had not yet been so low, not even when they had been on the run from an Orc pack. But Thorin could not blame them for their dark expressions and darker thoughts – he too felt uneasy here. The Misty Mountains had been an Orcish stronghold for years after Durin’s Halls had been emptied and it was not until recently that they had been culled from this sacred stone.

Thorin still remembered the early days of the War, when they had spoken of it with vengeance and fervor. He remembered too the way that righteousness had bled into the dull repetition of duty – battle after battle for years, with no end in sight. He remembered when the end had come at last. That last battle at Azanulbizar – six years and thousands of lives lost for this one gate into their most sacred of Halls.

All for naught. They had won the battle, yes, but the way was shut. The remnants of the enemy had barricaded themselves inside and the sheer devastation of the battle forbade the King from pressing on. The cost had been innumerable – burning pyres and grief beyond measure. Khazad-dûm lay lost and abandoned miles below their feet and Thorin knew that none had forgotten. The stone itself seemed to remember the poison of evil more than any brightness that had once touched it – the very rock ill-boding and sick.

He turned to scan his fellows, to gauge how much longer they could push before weariness would force his hand. Bífur, Dwalin, Balin, Óin, and Glóin – they had been there, they had bled there, and Thorin watched them for fatigue of spirit more than any of the body. The memory more than the journey threatened them now.

It was not any of them who drew his eye, though, as ever it was Master Baggins. The Hobbit stood precariously balanced against the rock wall at the end of the line, his face turned to the West where the entire expanse of Eriador stretched below them. Summer had turned the valley lush and vibrant, and the breeze was still gentle and sweet as it pushed at their backs. Imladris lay hidden out of sight and the Great East Road crawled away to the south in a barely intelligible path. No settlements could be seen from their vantage point but Thorin imagined that the Hobbit was straining his eyes toward the horizon regardless. That way lay blue skies and green forest. That way lay Rivendell and the Shire. That way lay his home – his heart.

Thorin turned back to the East and ordered them to keep moving. They had hours of daylight to walk by yet.

It was slow-going and uneventful until, inevitably, it was not. The wind picked up speed from the West and Thorin saw the clouds he had been wary of draw nearer from the East. He had dwelled long enough in and on mountains to know what came next. Sumer storms can be terrible and mighty things down in the land and the river-valleys but Thorin knew that these mountain storms were an entirely different form of awe. When storms came up from the East and the West and met on the Mountain peak, when the wild and wandering winds met at last, he knew that they met for war.

The rain came hard and it came fast, stinging and biting at exposed flesh and blowing up viciously beneath their hoods. Ominous clouds blocked out the setting sun and plunged the mountain cliff into an odd and incomplete darkness. Lightning splintered on the peaks, the mountain shivered, crashing rang into every crack and hollow, and the night came alive with a battle all its own.

“Hold on!” He cried, clutching onto the cliff face in a struggle to keep his footing against the insistent battering of the wind. This would not do, at this rate –

Shouting drew his gaze behind him, where he could hardly make out what the commotion had been. Through the rain he could make out Dwalin crouched on the path, precariously far from the wall, his hands full of someone’s coat as he pulled them back to safety.

“We must find shelter!” Thorin called, even as frightened green eyes met his over Dwalin’s shoulder.

“Watch out!” Dwalin barked, face pale and panicked as he crushed Baggins against the wall.

He turned to face whatever threat was upon them only to be thrown to the ground by a massive crash high above them, stone vibrating beneath his feet and sending a shower of rock onto their heads. Wordless cries rose from the Company as they threw themselves as far back from the ledge as possible. The chasm below loomed dark and menacing in a way that it had not mere hours ago.

“This is no thunderstorm,” Balin called, voice barely audible over the howling wind, “this is a thunder battle! Look!”

And Thorin looked. He peered into the darkness and saw nothing for a moment, but as lightning struck the mountainside, he saw the very stone itself stand and move. Great hulking shapes lumbered in the dark, stone through and through, and not any sign of face or joint or limb but there they stood and there they fought, mountains in the shape of men.

“Well bless me, the legends are true,” Bofur cried, hysterical laughter bubbling through his words, “Giants! Stone giants!”

As they watched the giant lumbered toward the opposite cliffside and pushed at the rock until a boulder the size of an Oliphant came loose. It began to turn toward them, and slow as its massive body moved Thorin knew what it looked like when someone was winding up for a throw.

“Take cover – you’ll fall!” He shouted, grabbing the dwarf nearest to him as he pressed back into the safety of the cliff side. The giant threw the stone, but it missed them, instead it crashed into another moving mountain that emerged from behind the Company, sending it sprawling into the abyss with a bone rattling groan and crash.

“What’s happening!” He heard Kíli cry out from somewhere nearby and the rock beneath them began to shift. To Thorin’s horror the Company was caught on two sides of a growing crevice – a crevice that began to move and groan as it stood.

“Kíli!” Fíli called, frantic and terrified. “Kíli, grab my hand! Kí-”

The mountain stood tall and drowned out his nephew’s screaming. He found himself trapped on the knee of a Stone giant. Half of the Company and Kíli stared at him in wide eyed panic, pale faces looking to him for direction and knuckles bone white as they clung to the giant and to each other.

The only direction that he could offer, that he had ever been able to offer, was onward. The ledge – the leg – onto which they clung swung quickly to the side – farther from the rest of the Company but closer to a separate and thankfully unmoving outcropping of stone. With dread pooling in his gut he urged his party toward it.

“Go, go, go,” he chanted, regaining his balance and using the giant’s momentum to cross the remaining distance – a leap over a cavernous plunge that he dared not look at. They crashed to the ground even as the Giant pulled away, the last of them having to make a leap that left Thorin breathless to watch. As soon as they were all accounted for, he turned back to peer through the storm, searching frantically for the others.

Óin, Glóin, Balin, Bífur, Kíli – thank Mahal, Kíli, it had been too close and when Fíli had cried out he had feared the worst – all of these were with him and he could barely make out the others scrambling and screaming in the distance. He could hardly even hear them, so swiftly did the wind steal away their voices.

“Get down!” Someone screamed from beside him and he ducked just in time to dodge the avalanche of stone caused by one incredible fist of rock against the cliffside. The Giants were fighting, crashing into each other in unrestrained excitement and he could not tell if they made a game or war. It did not matter – they would all die regardless if they did not find a way out.

The second giant threw a boulder – a mountain in its own right – at the one from which they had just escaped and Thorin could not restrain the scream that rose from him when it’s head flew from it’s body and shattered on the mountainside above them. Its body began to fall past them, and he was horrified to see the others fly past on its other knee.

The Giant tried to regain its footing, the others grew nearer to the mountain and he could hear their screams all the more clearly through the roar.

“Hold on!” He called to them, though he doubted they could hear even as he extended his long axe over the abyss in hopes that at least one of them would be able to grab it and swing over to safety.

The giant moved too quickly – and he flinched back at the impact and the horror as they collided with the mountainside, crushed between the giant and the cold stone.

“No!” He heard himself yell through the panic, but he could hardly hear anything but his own blood rushing through his ears. Fíli had been there. Dwalin, the others - Fíli, his Fíli, his little lion cub, he had been right there. Not again. Not again, how many times, how many times must he bear this pain, how many? His brother, his sister’s lover, now his heir? Now too his shield-brother, his best friend?

They watched the giant fall into the ravine, and he could not make out anyone alive or dead on its knee. He wasted not a moment, as soon as the vibration lessoned enough to move, he threw himself along the ledge, his nephew’s name on his lips.

He could not stop the sound that escaped him when he came upon not seven mangled corpses but a pile of water-logged and tussling dwarrow. Bombur rolled on his back like a turtle and Dwalin snapped at someone to get off of him and Thorin had to stop to get his breath back. Fíli extracted himself from beneath Nori and immediately stumbled over to his brother, Kíli scrambling across the narrow ledge like an eager puppy to meet his embrace.

Thorin moved to join them, intent on not releasing them from his hold for several long moments when he was stopped by Bofur, frantically counting heads.

“Where’s Bilbo?” He asked, breathless and urgent. “Where’s the Hobbit!?”

“There!” Came Ori’s call, already on his back and sliding precariously further down the ledge to get to –

To the Hobbit, dangling there on the side of the cliff, green eyes wide and terrified, water-logged and pale, and straining to keep his grip, to keep from plummeting to what would surely be his death. His face seemed frozen in some form of abject terror and Thorin had expected screaming, somehow, but the silent fear was so much worse.

“Get him!” Dwalin roared, diving to grab at his slipping fingers, missing by mere seconds as the Hobbit slipped a terrifying few feet down the sheer cliff, grabbing onto a handhold at the last second with a strangled yelp.

Ori and Bofur draped themselves over the cliffside, half the Company laying over each other and calling to the Hobbit to grab their hands, frantic cries of his name blending with the torrent of rain and thunder. Baggins reached for them with his free hand, but he wasn’t close enough, his other hand began to slip –

Thorin swung himself down off the ledge, finding the rock slippery but not unfamiliar, and clutched at the most solid handhold that he could find. He climbed as close as he could and wrapped his hand as tightly into the back of the Hobbit’s coat as possible. He weighed practically nothing, even sodden through as he was, and Thorin had him back onto the path with only a few shoves and the grasping hands of the waiting Company.

A weight lifted from his shoulders, Thorin made to climb back up, Dwalin reaching out to help him. But he was distracted and the stone treacherous and fault ridden. His hand hold fell away as he put his weight on it to lever himself up and it was only Dwalin’s sure grip that saved him from death. He hung in the air with nothing but the other dwarf’s grip to keep him anchored and he heard the others cry out much as they had for the Hobbit.

He was not as light as a Hobbit though and with a pained growl Dwalin hefted him back onto the cliff from where he dangled in free air. The others anchored the large dwarf, digging hands into his belts and furs, others still reaching to Thorin when he grew close enough.

“C’mon lad,” Balin murmured, straining against his weight as he reached around his brother, “up you get.”

Back on solid stone and reeling from his near fall Thorin hadn’t the air to snap at him for it.

“I thought we lost our burglar,” Dwalin said between panted breaths, an attempt to alleviate the post-crisis fear, but Thorin found no comfort or humor in it.

“He’s been lost ever since he left home,” he growled back, gaze cast back to meet those still too wide eyes before he had to look away, his own passing terror choking him, “He should never have come. He has no place amongst us.”

And he had thought as much to himself for months now, but for some reason he hadn’t sent him away. He could have – could have turned the flustered Hobbit back home the moment he had appeared, late and bearing a freshly signed contract. Could have sent him back the first time he called out to stop because he’d forgotten some trinket, the first time he’d let slip his odd little magics, the night he had argued with Thorin over the campfire. Could have left him in Rivendell, dozing in elvish gardens.

But now what was done was done and the odd little man was trapped in the treacherous mountain passes with them for better or worse.

“Dwalin!” He barked, furious and needing distraction. “We look for shelter.”

It took some searching, the stone hear ill and uncooperative, but the cave that they found was dry and dark even if the stone felt as foul as the rest of this damned pass.

“It looks safe enough,” Dwalin muttered, tired from the excitement and displeased with Thorin and his ill-temper.

“Search to the back,” he replied, frankly uncaring of Dwalin’s disapproval; he had always had a short temper and Dwalin had borne the brunt of it for more than a century now, “caves in the mountains are seldom unoccupied.”

They searched the whole of the cave, not too large but enough to fit the fourteen of them and allow for space to dry their packs.

The Company made quick work of clearing the floor and laying down their bedrolls, cataloging soaked packs and laying out coats and boots to dry. Most had packed enough extra clothes in their oil-skin packs to fend off the chill of the night but still they longed for some light to fend off the deep shadow of the Misty Mountain’s pass.

“Right then,” cheered Glóin, dropping a pile of kindling unceremoniously, “let’s get a fire started!”

Glóin of course being exceptionally gifted at starting fires from nothing, even as far as dwarrow went, took every opportunity to remind the Company. Usually some ribbing would accompany his cheer but this night they were too weary to attempt even a small barb.

“No,” Thorin cut in, gaze stern even as he settled back to sit against the stone wall, “no fires, not in this place.” The dark was crushing yes, but he did not trust that there were not worse things lingering in the shadow than the cold. Any welcome light would only be a torch in the dark to guide foul things to their door. “Get some sleep. We start at first light.”

“We were to wait in the mountains until Gandalf joined us,” Balin countered from where he had already begun to lay out his things to dry, and Thorin knew that he was trying to give him the opportunity to back away from his decision, “that was the plan.”

“Plans change.” He replied, stare challenging, and he knew that Balin would not openly question such a decision in front of the others, but he also knew the old dwarf well enough to see the flash of displeasure behind his politician’s mask. “Bofur, take first watch.” He ordered, turning his back on his closest advisor, lest either of them say something they ought not to.

Thorin settled on top of his bed roll despite the uneasy grumbling of the Company and allowed himself to relax as he felt Fíli shuffle around at his back. His nephews whispered to each other, bickering over who got to lay closest to the back of the cave and thus avoid what little draft crept in. Thorin felt some sense of comfort at the childishness of it all, the reassurance that they were hale and seemingly already bouncing back from the near death they’d almost faced.

He would not voice it, but he was often plagued by the fear that either of the two should meet their end on this quest. He would have left them safely in Ered Luin with their mother had he any choice, but they were by right adults even if they had not yet matured to match. Still, he was fairly sure that Dís would never forgive him, even if he did manage to return the boys to her unharmed. She had raged at him about the foolishness of this quest for weeks even before Fíli and Kíli had forced themselves into the Company’s ranks. Her rage had gone ice cold at the development and she had not spoken to him for all the months leading up to his departure – it was not until the very morning on which he had left to meet with the emissaries of the other six Houses that she deigned to speak to him.

She had once more pleaded with him to call off this fool’s errand, to not follow after their Father’s mad obsession, but he had refused her just as he had the dozen times before. Angry and grief stricken she had said no more except to make him promise to return with her sons when he was through. She had pressed a dagger into his hand as she swept away, heavy skirts swirling in time with her angry footsteps, and he had nearly called out to her when he realized that it had been one of Frerin’s.

He had not wanted to leave her alone. Had not wanted her to bear his titles - last of their line, lone Dwarf Lord in Eriador, Regent of his Halls until he returned. If he returned. But there were many things he did not want to do that he knew he must. So Dís reigned in his absence and he swore to himself that even if he did not return to her he would ensure her sons did.

But still, a part of him feared that he may yet lose a part of them, even it was only their childishness in this endeavor. Even such a small thing would pain him, he knew, and even if Dís did find it in her heart to forgive him, he himself never would.

And worse still, in his darkest hours he feared that he would lose one brother all together and thereby doom the other to continue on alone. He knew himself enough to know that his own grief would not stop him from continuing this quest – but he was also aware that the remaining prince would not be fit to carry on. He knew it, and he knew it well, because he had not been.

Common thought was that the War of Dwarves and Orcs had ceased because of their overwhelming losses – and while this was true Thorin also knew that his father would not have stopped even faced with those grim numbers.

He had been too far gone even at that point.

It had been Thrain who led the vanguard charge at Azanulbizar. It had been Thrain who had seen the impossible hoard of Orcs on the rise, had known they were vastly outmatched, and had still ordered the charge. It had been Thrain who fought with such ferocity that a foolish Prince had even begun to believe that they might win.

But it had been Thorin who had continued on even after his shield had been rent and torn from his shattered arm. It had been Thorin to gather the survivors and regroup, it had been Thorin to order his injured Father off the field. It had been Thorin that dug through the stinking corpses to find his brother, that had found him half buried beneath an indistinguishable mass of rot, and it had been Thorin that had touched his beloved face frantically only to see the arrow jutting out from beneath his poor excuse for a beard.

He did not remember much else except for a distinct memory of a mourning tent. Frerin laid out in front of him, Fundin[i] already cold in the far corner, and the sound of Dain wailing beside his father’s corpse on the other side.

Dain had only been thirty-two. Frerin had been forty-eight.

Neither had grown into their beards yet, and one of them never would.

No, Thorin would not lose either of his boys – in doing so he would lose the both of them, though one still drew breath.

If he had his way, he would lose no one on this quest at all. Perhaps it was foolish to aim for such a thing when one hunted a dragon, but Thorin had striven for the best possible outcome in all things, even such very foolish endeavors.

It was with such maudlin thoughts that he slipped into a wakeful half-rest, eyes closed and mind foggy except for his alert senses. It was only because of this that he heard the rustle of movement long after the others had fallen asleep. Across the cave he heard the scratch of fabric, the clink of belts - someone rifling through their pack, he thought. But when he heard the hollow tap of wood on stone, he somehow knew that it was the Hobbit’s walking stick.

There came the certain realization that he had packed up his meager belongings, there in the night where no one could stop him, and Thorin felt his stomach drop at the thought.

The sudden clanking of buckles and the scramble of boots, a restrained gasp of alarm, and then Bofur’s voice, whispering and urgent, “Where do you think you’re going?”

Bofur, who had been on watch, Bofur who had caught their erstwhile Burglar on his way out, Bofur who was his friend, who might convince him to stay-

Hadn’t Thorin wanted him to go?

Thorin hadn’t heard any of his steps but the put-upon little sigh was sign enough that he had stopped.

“Back to Rivendell,” He said, short and – to Thorin’s increasing dread – determined.

“No,” Bofur breathed, standing to his feet nosily, sputtering for only a moment, “No, you can’t turn back now. You’re part of the Company. You’re one of us.”

The rustle of clothes, the Hobbit must have turned to face him, good. The sooner he realized that it was impossible to turn back at this point, the better. A lone Hobbit traveling through the mountains on his own was a prime target for all manner of foe and fiends – no it was best that he carry on.

“I’m not though, am I?” He asked, voice not nearly as accusing as it should have been. Silence reigned for a moment and Thorin could only imagine the confusion on Bofur’s face; Bofur who had already accepted the Hobbit as one of their number without any fuss, who had shared his meals, and his stories, and his family with the other. “Thorin said I should never have come, and he was right.”

Silence reigned for a moment and Baggins made a scuffing sound as he shifted anxiously on his feet. Thorin did not know why the Hobbit’s agreement made his stomach roil. It was not in his character, it had seemed, to agree with anything that Thorin had said, certainly not when it pertained to his opinion of him.

“I’m not a Took,” he continued with feeling, not that Thorin had any idea what that meant at all, “I’m a Baggins. I don’t know what I was thinking.” A pause, a choked little breath, “I should never have run out my door.”

And Thorin remembered then the way that he had grinned nervously up at them, flushed and out of breath and waving his contract at them excitedly. He remembered the way he had looked at him, excitement and anticipation in his eyes, and Thorin had not and still did not know what for. Certainly not for this, certainly not for him to turn back in shame in the shadow of a mountain pass. Certainly not for him and his biting words.

“You’re homesick,” Bofur said in realization, voice soft and slow as one would speak to a spoked animal or a wailing child, “I understand.”

“No, you don’t!” Baggins bit back, losing his temper and shuffling closer across the floor, “You don’t understand, none of you do – you’re Dwarves! You – you’re used to – to this life, to living on the road, never settling in one place, never belonging anywhere!”

Silence reigned for a heavy moment and then Baggins took in a sharp breath and his feet shuffled backward. As if he was the one who had been hurt by those words, as if he was the one forced to recoil.

“I am sorry,” he said, voice all at once level again, as if his anger had run out, “I didn’t mean-” He cut himself short, cleared his throat, shuffled some more. Bofur remained quiet and Thorin stared at the cave wall intently.

He knew he should be angry. He tried to be, but somehow all he felt was cold.

“No, you’re right,” Bofur said, and Thorin wished to Mahal that he wasn’t, but it had been their life for so long that most knew no other. He could hear the rustle of Bofur’s clothes as he turned to gaze over the sleeping company, and Thorin had to close his eyes against the shame of it, “we don’t belong anywhere.”

The pained silence after that was too much, was too heavy and Thorin wished that he had caught the Hobbit before Bofur had. That he had spared the toymaker the pain – had spared himself the pain. He wished he had never heard such horrid things from Baggins’ mouth. Wishes he had not spurred their creation with his own.

“I wish you all the luck in the world,” Bofur said at last, voice fond and infinitely sad, “I really do.”

A sigh, the patting of clothes – an embrace, a clasping of shoulders, something warm, some form of goodbye and Thorin felt like he was choking on the knowledge that the Hobbit was leaving. He was leaving and he will not return, and he may even die on the way, but he had weighed the risk and found it better than staying here, with them. With him.

He had brought this upon himself, had even wished for it, but now its fruition was choking him alive and he wanted to cry out, wanted to demand that the Hobbit fulfill his contract, wanted to order him to stay, but he cannot and he will not and he doesn’t know why he should.

The Hobbit will go home, and he will be safe and out of Thorin’s way and that should please him.

It should but it did not.

“What’s that?” Bofur asked, curiously, before the Hobbit was gone – but he already was gone, wasn’t he, was gone as soon as he had decided to leave.

A questioning hum and the drawing of perfect steel, and Thorin began to hear the muffled grinding of metal against metal below.

Reluctantly he turned his gaze to the cave floor and could not help but curse when seams appeared in the stone, sand falling down to whatever trap they had wandered into.

“Wake up,” he barked, leaping to his feet and gripping tightly to Orcrist, reaching immediately for whichever of his nephews lay nearest, “Wake up!”

Before any of them could get to their feet, the floor gave way and they were falling. This time there was no shield-brother to save him, there were no waiting arms to pull him up, there was only the drop of his stomach as he clutched Fíli as tightly to his chest as he was able. They were screaming, all of them, and he smelled the stench of goblin before he even hit the ground.

They landed in a poorly made wooden cage, all of them moaning and confused, and Thorin felt rage bubble up in his heart as he looked out at a sea of stunted Orcs, jabbering and screeching at their fresh catch.

Their trap door ground and screeched at it closed above them, crudely wrought gears in need of oil and any care at all, and Thorin hated this about them too. They delighted in wheels and engines and explosions and all manner of clever yet crude machines but always they tried to lessen their own work, to avoid working with their own hands more than necessary. They dug and tunneled with ill-wrought contraptions and no care for the rock through which they bore, the air which they poisoned, the slaves that they forced to do their work. They invented all manner of war machine and tools for slaughter and nothing of beauty, nothing with soul, and it was an affront to Mahal in every way.

“Longbeard,” one of them screeched, nearest to the cage, and the rest took up the chant, crying curses as they went, ripples of hatred feeding their crowd.

“Durin’s spawn,” another barked, angry and spitting, and Thorin grinned wickedly to see the chipped blade of a dwarfish axe lodged in its hunched back.

Orcs hated anything orderly and prosperous, hated everyone, but the goblins of these lands had long held grudges against Durin’s folk. It was not the dwarrow who had lost that war, after all.

Before he could rally his Company, the goblins were upon them, wrenching away their weapons, their half-soaked clothes, their packs. Somehow, they were herded away, kicking and hollering, and staying as tightly packed together as they can. At their backs the goblins began to snap at them with whips, cackling at the yelps and curses that this caused. They were led through ill-carved tunnels, filthy and poorly lit, over precarious bridges and scaffolding and Thorin did not doubt that Bífur would be cursing them until he was blue in the face for their poor work had they not been so near to a bad end.

They were led to a platform, a great throne made of random bits of debris strapped together in the center and upon it sat the single fattest and most grotesque Orc that he had ever seen.

“Who are these miserable persons?” It slurred, spittle flying from its swollen and greasy lips as it wobbled forward on his slap-dash throne. “Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom? Spies? Thieves? Assassins?”

“Dwarves, Your Malevolence,” a foul spindly creature answered, a mockery of a bow and a wicked grin on its pock ridden face, “and this.”

One of them pushed Baggins forward roughly and he skidded to his knees on the splinter ridden floor at the force of it, a startled yelp escaping him which only made the horde laugh in delight. Thorin could not see his face but he doubted that he would see anything but that same silent terror.

“We found them sheltering on the front porch,” The little goblin sneered, pressing down on the Hobbit’s back with a filthy foot.

“What is this thing, then?” The great goblin huffed, annoyed and interested all at once, “Some elvish half-spawn? A stunted Man-child? A beardless dwarf mutation? What are you little thing? Trouble, no doubt. Up to no good, I suspect! See how it’s hair shines rust-gold, a well-loved thing it must be!”

The horde howled in agreement, and the orc on his back pushed the Hobbit roughly into the filthy floor. Orcs were driven by hate and jealousy and greed the same way that dwarrow are by pride and love. They hate all things and they hate beloved things most because they have no room in their rotten hearts for such things.

Baggins choked on the dirt and the filth and Thorin almost moved to tear that goblin off of him before he was stopped by clawing fingers.

“Well don’t just stand there, search them!” The foul orc ordered from on high, swinging dramatically from side to side on its perch. “Every crack! Every crevice!”

Orc hands were everywhere, greedy and grasping, pulling at clothes and pinching in unwanted places, vile and without care. Protests and threats flowed in Westron and Khuzdul both and he thought he might have heard some very crude Hobbitish in there somewhere.

Thorin felt their chances of escape slipping away with every weapon wrenched from their hidden places, every trinket and provision picked from their pockets. They pulled a bag away from Nori, the dwarf’s face paling marginally in true distress when they began to pull it apart, dumping heaps of elvish gold and baubles onto the floor.

Whooping in delight, the orcs scrambled over each other to present their find to the goblin king. The lesion coated beast swiped up a golden candelabra, inspecting it with dim, milky, eyes.

“Made in Rivendell?” It pondered, “Bah- Second age; couldn’t give it away!”

It tossed it into the horde, goblins jumping like fish from the water to catch it for themselves. Nori spared a sheepish glance at his elder brother as Óin turned a truly frightening glare to him.

“Just a couple of keepsakes,” he muttered and Thorin wondered how many pardons, exactly, he was going to have to pen for this dwarf alone.

“What do you mean buy it? What are you doing in these parts? Speak!” The great foul thing crowed, swollen fist thumping angrily on the rickety wood of is seat and rattling the entire platform. Goblins jeered all around them and Thorin knew better than to step forward no matter his desire to do so.

“Don’t worry, lads,” Óin said, in a confident tone of voice that immediately induced worry in Thorin’s gut, “I’ll handle this.”

“No tricks!” Howled the great goblin, swaying dramatically in its throne. “I want the truth – warts and all!”

“You’re going to have to speak up,” Óin snapped, foul bedside manner rearing its head as ever it did, “Your boys’ve flattened my trumpet.” Saying so, he gestured to the smashed scrap of metal which had been his hearing aid.

“I’ll flatten more than your trumpet!” The orc snarled, lurching from his seat before Bofur jumped to the front of the Company, hat in hand.

“If it’s more information you’re wanting,” he said, smile nervous yet charming as he turned on the orcish filth, “it’s me you’ll be wanting to speak to!”

Seeing the goblin pause in his fury the toymaker carried on, tongue working quicker than his mind it seemed.

“We were on the road- well, it’s not so much a road as a path- actually, it’s not even that, come to think of it, it’s more like a track,” he rambled, and Thorin felt the Company shift anxiously around him, Dwalin stepping over to shield Thorin from the orc’s direct sight, “Anyway, the point is we we’re on this road, like a path, like a track, and then we weren’t! Which is a problem, because we were supposed to be in Dunland last Tuesday.”

The Company began to chatter and add their own bits of information – Bombur and his third cousin who truly did own a bakery in Dunland proper, and Nori’s not-so-esteemed associate who had a rather successful enterprise lined up, and Gloín’s wife’s niece who was expecting to begin her courtship soon – and Thorin would shut them up himself if he weren’t trying to avoid drawing attention to himself.

A stray group of dwarrow traveling to Dunland, where they had first fled after the fall of Erebor in a desperate bid at regrouping, would be more believable if they were not discovered to be in the company of the royal line. Many dwarrow had settled in Dunland and her outskirts, but none so important as to warrant a visit from Durin’s heir.

“Enough!” Roared the orc, spittle flying from its maw. “I’m no fool – you expect me to believe these lies?”

The Company remained silent for a long moment, nothing but the murmuring of goblins around them to answer.

“Well then, if they will not talk, we’ll make them squawk,” the great goblin cheered, leaping onto its feet precariously and rounding on its horde, “Bring out the Mangler! Bring out the Bone Breaker! Start with the youngest!”

It pointed at Ori and at once shouts broke out from the Company. Dori clutched his brother to his chest and Nori threw himself in front of them both, eyes wild. Dwalin was suddenly gone from Thorin’s side, halfway into a charge toward the orc as soon as the words had landed.

“Wait!” Thorin barked, voice rising above the cacophony, and he was relieved to see that the burgeoning brawl halted at once. “We had no ill-intent when we took shelter from the storm in what we thought to be an unused cave. We meant to cause no trouble.”

Not a lie, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. Though if Thorin had known that there were this many Orcs left in these mountains, he would have caused them rather a lot of trouble quite a while ago. Lacking in able-bodied dwarrow or not, there were far too many Orcs left in and around Kahzad-dûm for his liking.

“Hm, so you say, but might I ask what you were doing up in the mountains at all, and where you are going? And where you are coming from, for that matter?” The great goblin leaned forward on its poorly built dais and Thorin nearly gagged at the stench of it. “Not that I’ll believe a word of it, mind you. I’ve known enough of your people, and enough of you yourself, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór; King Beneath the Mountain!”

Thorin moved back as the putrid hulking thing stepped down to glare at him.

“Oh, but I’m forgetting, you don’t have a mountain,” it sneered, rotten teeth flashing as it laughed its his own words, “And you’re not a king. Which makes you nobody, really.”

The cavern erupted in wicked laughter, cackles echoing grotesquely off of the walls and Thorin struggled not to reach up and rip out the rotting beast’s throat.

“I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head,” it said at last, mischief and delight dancing in its milky eyes, “Just the head, nothing attached. Perhaps you know of whom I speak; an old enemy of yours. A Pale Orc astride a White Warg.”

And Thorin felt his heart stutter in his chest, rage giving way to icy terror.

“Azog the Defiler was destroyed,” he said, reassuring himself, remembering the way that wee Dain had carried the bloody head through the valley, using his father’s famous red axe as a crutch and bleeding all the while from the gore where his foot used to be, remembered the way that he had laid the trophy at Thorin’s feet, had knelt even through his agony, had called him King and had laid his head on Thorin’s knee, had wept and asked to go home, “he was slain in battle long ago.”[ii]

“And so was the King Beneath the Mountain!” Howled the great goblin with laughter. “Yet here you are!”

And Thorin remembered that too. Another head without a body, but this one beloved and fierce and terrible all the same, pale and bloodless with runes cut harshly into cold flesh. They’d cut out his braids, and they’d cut off his head, and half his beard had been ripped out, and that beast had sent him back with its name in his flesh.[iii]

He remembered how he’d gotten sick at the sight, how he’d heaved up what little food they’d managed to find, and how his father had howled.

He remembered how they’d begun that war.

He remembered how Azog had earned the name Defiler.

Thorin wondered if his heir had inherited the title or earned it over again just as Thorin had been made to earn Thrór’s.

“Send word to the Pale Orc!” The Goblin ordered, spinning dramatically to crash back into its seat, “Tell him I have his prize.”

The Company erupted into chaos at the order, but the orc horde held them down, and the Great Goblin cackled at their fury.

“Ah-ha, look how they rally for their King,” it chortled, bulbous chin bobbing grotesquely with the movement, “but come to think of it, I doubt young Azog will have much use for the rest of you. The bounty was only for the Durin King after all!”

It called out for its torture machines once more, and this time Thorin didn’t have any hope to stop them.

“Start with the young ones!” It cried, delighted and callous, “Start with the strangeling – the not-dwarf! Tie him up and make him scream!”

The Orcs surged forward and seized the Hobbit once more, and the Company cried out almost as one, Bofur and Dori clutched to him frantically, but their hands were pried away and lashed with whips until Baggins was left to the Orc’s clutches. Thorin found himself shouting all manner of threats and curses as the Hobbit struggled in his capture’s grip.

“Bones will be shattered; necks will be wrung! You’ll be beaten and battered; from racks you’ll be hung. You will lie down here and never be found, down in the deep of Goblin-town,” sang the great goblin over the din, reveling in the chaos and the fear.

The goblins lifted the Hobbit clean off of his feet though this did nothing to stop him from screaming and kicking at them. He kicked one clean across the jaw, and it fell to the ground motionless, though it earned him a punch to the face for his trouble.

“Let go! Let me go!” He cried, little face pale and twisted up in fear, “Bofur! Fíli! Kíli! Help! Someone – put me down, damn you – Thorin!”

Thorin made to grab at the orc holding him back, intent on headbutting the creature until it released him, or its skull caved in, whichever came first. But he didn’t get a chance as the entire cave erupted in howls of fear and rage. Looking to the commotion he saw Orcrist laid out on the ground, unsheathed and glowing in the light.

“I know that sword!” Howled the great goblin, voice high and reedy as it stumbled back up its dais in fear, “Goblin-cleaver, Biter; the blade that sliced a thousand necks! You – murderers, elf-friends!”

The goblins howled in fear and hatred and sprung on the Company, whipping at them and tearing with their claws wherever they could reach.

“Slash them! Beat them! Kill them! Kill them all! Cut off his head!” Howled the great one, skittering onto its throne and curling around it like a coward – like a frightened child.

Thorin found himself outnumbered, all of his dwarrow separated and shouting, and all at once he was tackled to the ground by too many foul bodies to count. Suddenly there was a knife in his face and a mutilated grin as one of them yanked at a fistful of his hair, forcing him to bear his neck.

He snarled at the unwelcome touch, worse than the biting and the groping he’d endured before, he felt his skin crawl at the feel of such a vile thing touching his hair. He shook with rage beneath their weight and he found some satisfaction in the fearful whimpers they could not hide.

The one bearing the knife seemed unaffected by his snarling and grinned even wider as it raised the blade, intent, he realized, on taking off his head.

Was this it? Was this how he would die? Trapped in a goblin hoard and beheaded, defiled, like his Grandfather? His corpse sold to Azog’s heir as some trophy?

He could hear his Company fighting still, could hear someone calling his name and wildly he hoped it was the Hobbit.

Everything went white and he thought that he must have died.

Except there was no peace here, only a voice, familiar and angry, “Take up arms!”

He raised his head at the call, and found Tharkûn, imposing and furious, blade drawn and face grim in the silence. The wizard met his eyes and scowled deeper.

“Fight.” He ordered, before turning to level his glare at the rest of the Company, “Fight!”

Thorin was on his feet and Orcrist was in his hand before he knew how it had happened. The Company quickly rallied, diving for their weapons and cutting through Orcs like paper. Gandalf somehow had come nearer, Glamdring flashing in time with the whirl of his staff.

“The Foe-hammer! Beater! Bright as daylight!” Cried the great goblin, wailing on its petty throne where it still blinked the light from weak eyes.

Nori, who had abandoned use of both his sword and his weighted staff and was fending off a frankly impossible number of orcs with only his fleshing daggers, drew too close to the frantic behemoth. Seeing the opening, the great goblin grasped at a mace of bone and metal and made a charge straight for the dwarf.

“Nori!” Shouted Dwalin, too far away and too caught up with his own foes to stop the goblins approach.

Hearing Dwalin’s cry, Thorin charged for the goblin, deflecting the mace as it came down to crush Nori from behind. The thief ducked and rolled out of the way as Thorin pushed the putrid hulk back, only to watch the damnable fiend lose its balance and fall right off of its own platform deep into the depths of the mountain.

“Saved my head, there, yer’ royalness,” Nori hooted with far too much cheer for a dwarf who had almost been crushed flat, “much obliged.”

Thorin didn’t get the chance to reply before they both were distracted by the writhing mass of monsters, though he didn’t miss Dwalin’s snarl and increasing propensity for tearing the goblins to pieces instead of simply taking their heads.

Fools, the both of those two.

“Follow me,” called Tharkûn, fast and fierce, “Quick! Run!”

Thorin made his way back to the wizard’s side through the battle and followed as he led them on a frantic escape through the mountain.

“Quickly!” The wizard barked, glancing back to the end of the line as Thorin kept his eyes on the front, cutting through orcs by the putrid dozen.

“Half a minute!” Shouted Dori from the back, and Thorin glanced his way just in time to see him heft the Hobbit up onto his shoulders in one easy motion, running all the while with not a falter in his step.The Hobbit yelped something unintelligible that had Kíli chortling as he ran. He gripped tightly to Dori’s shoulders, pale face grim and frightened even as he was toted around like a child.

Thorin told himself not to be annoyed by it; after all, Baggins was slow on a good day, and after the treatment he’d endured back there Thorin did not doubt that his knees were nearly black with bruises and splintered besides. Dori was the strongest of them without contest, and the Hobbit trusted him. He was a good dwarf and had already proven himself fond of the Hobbit – why shouldn’t he take up his burden – literally, as it were?

“Post!” Hollered Dwalin, spotting a gaggle of goblins coming at them fast. Following his lead, they broke a guardrail post from the walkway, and together held it in front of them – a makeshift spear of massive proportion.

“Charge!” He ordered, and as one they knocked near forty of them right off the scaffolding.

Dwalin roared something pleased and forced his way to the front, drawing Grasper and Keeper from his back and making quick work of the incoming orcs. They all followed after him, following his path of carnage and mopping up the ones he couldn’t get at, but the numbers were overwhelming and Thorin knew they couldn’t keep this up forever.

This was, after all, how Orcs won wars. They had very few skilled warriors, but they counted on the sheer advantage of numbers to wear their enemies down. It was quantity over quality with them, always; in their armor, in their weapons, in their soldiers.

He heard the Hobbit shout and out of the corner of his eye saw Dori pass him off to Bofur, all the while Baggins swung his sword wildly at every putrid thing that slipped between the dwarrow. If Thorin was a lesser dwarf he may have cracked a smile at the absurdity of it.

In his distraction he was taken to the ground, the breath knocked from him when a goblin came swinging onto the walkway from a rope above them. He tussled with it for but a moment and, with his blade still buried in its throat, wasted no time in warning the others.

“Cut the ropes!” He ordered, even as a dozen more orcs came screeching down from above. The dwarrow nearest cut a platform loose, and it caught the falling goblins on its way into the abyss, the crunching of bones and squelching too much for Thorin to dwell on.

The sound of arrows being fired drew his attention, and he turned just in time to see Kíli block several with his sword. He saw the boy look around before some wicked mischief lit his eyes as he grabbed a nearby ladder and, with far too much glee, dropped it down over the incoming orcs with a crash. He smiled viciously as he and some of the others who had caught on pushed the ladder forward, the caught goblins forced back and right off the edge of the walkway. The ladder clattered on the other side and with a triumphant whoop from Kíli the way to the next platform was clear.

The Company crossed the ladder quickly, Dwalin cutting it away behind them with a particularly satisfied swing of his axe.

“Quickly!” Tharkûn called, and they were off again.

“All right, lads,” Bofur yelled, cheery and winded as he carted the Hobbit around on his shoulders, “who wants the Hobbit, next?”

“Me!” Kíli cheered, as he trotted along, turning to face the pair with outstretched arms.

“Not a chance,” cried Fíli, knocking into his brother roughly, “You can’t have the ladder trick and the Hobbit! You’re hogging all the fun!”

“Not my fault you haven’t got any good ideas!” Kíli countered, regaining his footing and trying to trip his brother who jumped over his kick easily.

“Shut your spoiled mouth – I’ll be taking Bilbo next, if you’d please, Bofur!” He smiled charmingly at the behatted toymaker and Bofur hesitated as the Hobbit clenched his hands firmly on his shoulders.

“If you hand me off to either of those two imps, I’ll never forgive you, Bofur,” He warned, causing the two brothers to protest loudly.

“Boys!” Barked Thorin, entirely annoyed with the whole thing – they were running for their damned lives for Mahal’s sake.

His nephews quit their bickering, only a spare few mumbles reaching his ears between the squelch and grunts of the odd goblin attacker being cut down. Thankfully, Glóin stepped up to take the Hobbit even as he complained loudly that he could walk just fine on his own, thank you.

“Aye, lad, but can you run?” Glóin chuckled. “We dwarrow can roll along at a tremendous pace when we have to. We’d not like to leave you behind!”

Baggins grew quite at this, and Thorin felt something crawl up his throat at the reminder that it had been the Hobbit who had intended to leave them behind.

They carried on quite a way, taking out innumerable orcs as they went until they found themselves on a platform separated by an impassable gap from the one where they needed to be. Looking around, Thorin spotted the ropes holding the platform to the closer side and, cutting them, allowed it to swing over to the other.

“Jump!” He barked, tumbling onto the other side with a running start. Several of the Company made it over the gap but several more were still trapped on it when it swung back, waiting for the next forward swing with bated breath. A pack of orcs dared the leap as the platform swung back the way they had come from, and too many for comfort managed to regain their footing and start up an attack. Thorin watched anxiously as half the Company fought them off, the return swing just picking up momentum when Gandalf wrenched the Hobbit off of Glóin’s shoulders and tossed him over into the waiting gaggle of dwarrow. There was a mad scramble to catch him and, quite without knowing how, Thorin found himself with an armful of Hobbit.

Large green eyes blinked up at him in shock, and Thorin could feel his small hands digging into his coat tightly. Baggins was uncomfortably pale, this close, and Thorin found himself leaning down to try and find those freckles he knew ought to dust his cheeks. He was breathing heavily, no doubt from his recent flight, and Thorin could feel his chest moving against his own, little erratic breaths that smelt somehow of fields after the rain. Thorin had the distant thought that he oughtn’t smell so pleasant after their recent misadventures.

The platform shook as the rest of the Company dropped onto it and Thorin hastily released the Hobbit. He blinked up at him in confusion and Thorin couldn’t think of anything to do but turn away.

They were in the middle of an escape after all.

Hastily, he moved to cut the ropes of the still swinging platform, dropping it and the Orcs it carried into the deep with a snarl.

“Move!” Thorin barked out, and the Company carried on, Dori once more picking up the startled Hobbit and trotting along at the rear.

They took a turn, crashing into another horde of orcs, and clashing blades as they pushed their way through. Tharkûn cleared through the mass first and, with a grunt of effort, raised his staff with a flash of light and knocked a boulder from the cave roof. The massive stone began to roll down the walkway, chunks flying off of it dangerously and Thorin heard the snap of bones underneath its weight as a goblin failed to scurry out of the way.

“Lads – push!” Dwalin rumbled, and Thorin could not suppress the fond exasperation he felt at the gleeful smile on his friend’s face. All too eagerly, they surged against the already rolling stone, sending it hurtling down the tunnel at a frightening speed. Thorin saw several dwarrow pull a face at the wet sound of goblins being crushed beneath the rock, and even he would admit that the sticky mess over which they ran was foul.

The boulder continued until it ran off of a dead-end curve, and taking the path left they found themselves in wider territory.

They came to a bridge, and Thorin could feel the air was fresher up here, that they were approaching freedom. Just as the first of them made to cross it, the bridge burst at the middle, a bulbous head crashing through the mess as the great goblin clumsily climbed his way up. The Company were forced back at the violence of it, debris hurtling through the air and knocking several of them off their feet. Thorin snarled at the sight of that grotesque face, dearly wishing it would have had the decency to die the first time. Swarms of goblins poured in from all sides, screeching and groping at them, and Thorin barked out the order to form ranks.

“You thought you could escape me?” Thundered the pus ridden giant, lumbering forward and swinging its crude mace at Tharkûn who dodged neatly backward. “What are you going to do now, Wizard?”

Sneering, Tharkûn moved forward and struck the oaf in one watery eye with his staff.

The malformed orc howled and clutched at its face, whining like a child before the Wizard stepped up and gutted it cleanly with one swing of Glamdring. The goblin stopped its moaning at once and fell to its knobby knees, clutching at its split stomach and staring at the wizard in surprise.

“Oh,” it mumbled, lost and confused, “that’ll do it.”

Tharkûn scoffed at the foolish thing and struck out once more, slicing its neck and sending it crashing to the wooden floor.

The weight of the fat beast jarred the entire platform and Thorin was forced to step back. The timber moaned ominously and all at once he knew that they were going to fall. The bridge gave a shuddering lurch and then, slowly, began to tilt away from the rest of the structure.

“Hold on!” He called, reaching out to hold onto a guardrail as best as he could though he doubted that it would do much to save them.

The failing scaffolding gave way and with a dizzying speed they were falling; wood screaming against stone as it scraped the walls of the ravine down which they tumbled. Splinters flew wildly through the air, and the creak and groan of snapping timbers reverberated through his boots. The Company screamed and howled as they fell to their no doubt certain death and Thorin could not say that he didn’t do the same.

The crash of wood against stone sent him to his knees, the impact so jarring he was sure he’d never felt such a blow in his life. Debris flew everywhere and he had to close his eyes to avoid anything lodging in them. The wood beneath him gave out abruptly and he sank a jarring foot before he caught onto another precarious foothold in the mess. Again, and again, they crashed into the cave wall, and he realized that somehow the impact had slowed their hurtling descent.

Another crash, another impact to send him reeling, and they were still, smashed wood and debris burying them where they lay at the bottom of the precipice.

He heard groaning and faint whimpers around him and could not bring himself to move for a moment.

They were alive. Somehow.

Tharkûn extricated himself from the rubble first, glancing over the battered company in some mixed amazement and amusement, and Thorin had the sudden urge to hurtle a rock at his wizened old face.

“Well, that could’ve been worse,” Bofur groaned from where he lay half hidden beneath a pile of wreckage, wheezing slightly between the words.

A wet thumping sound echoed above them and Thorin looked up just in time to see the great goblin’s corpse come hurtling down on top of them. He hadn’t the time to warn anyone when the stinking body landed with a squelch. The impact crushed all the air from his lungs for a moment, moans of pain and outrage echoing his feelings from the others.

“You’ve got to be joking!” Groaned Dwalin, angry and no doubt trying to strike something though Thorin could not see him to be sure.

Slowly, they began to try and dig themselves out, groans of pain and the clacking of wood giving way to Kíli’s panicked shouting.

“Gandalf!” He screamed, frantically pushing himself from the rubble, eyes trained above them in wide eyed terror.

Looking up, Thorin saw a sea of crawling orcs descending from the cavern walls, a grotesque and writhing carpet along the walls. His stomach churned at the familiar sight, at the reminder that these were the same creatures who had taken so much from him and the realization that they were coming to do it again.

“There’s too many,” Dwalin said, pulling a dazed Nori up from where he had been buried, hands surprisingly gentle though the panic in his face was clear, “we can’t fight them!”

“Only one thing will save us,” Tharkûn answered, stormy gaze flickering from Dwalin back to the approaching legion, “daylight! Come on! Here, on your feet!”

He pulled Óin bodily out of the rubble with one hand, depositing him on his feet with a pat on the shoulder and pushing him toward where Thorin could feel the tunnel led to an exit. Hurriedly the others followed, the wizard pushing them along and keeping an eye on the approaching orcs all the while.

Thorin followed after them, the wizard on his heels, and the echoing screech of orcs at their backs. They ran and ran, and eventually, the air gave way to the wind and the darkness to light.

Bursting from the mountain, the dwarrow ran over the foothills draped in sunlight, heading straight for the sparse outcropping of hills downrange. Stumbling after each other, they did not stop for what seemed to be miles. Not until the howls of pained goblin’s, unused to fresh air and warm sunlight, faded from their hearing.

Crashing into each other or skidding to a stop, they all took the time to catch their breath and even he felt the burn in his lungs. It had been a long time since he had suffered the near suffocation and light headedness that came from running and fighting for too long with too little rest.

“Five, six, seven…,” muttered Tharkûn, seemingly unbothered by the need to gasp and wheeze as they were, “Bífur, Bofur – that’s ten – Fíli, Kíli – twelve – and Bombur! That makes thirteen.”

His ancient brow furrowed then, head swinging to and fro, searching and slowly filling with dawning dread.

“Where is Bilbo?” He asked, quiet, as though to himself, though the question drew Thorin up short, what little breath he had in his lungs catching painfully.

“Where is our Hobbit?” Tharkûn asked, louder, glaring fiercely at Bofur and then Glóin and Dori. “Where is our Hobbit?!” He roared when all the answer he received was blank stares of disbelief.

“Curse the Halfling!” Groused Dwalin, knelt down next to a tree and spitting in the bush as he did, “Been more trouble than use, so far – now he’s lost? If we have to go back into those damned tunnels to look for him – well, let ‘im stay lost, I say!”

Nori, who had been patting his shoulder consolingly, drew back at the biting words, his face shuttering, and eyes burning cold where before they had been uncomfortably warm.

Dwalin glanced at him then, expression falling through confusion, realization, horror, regret, ad outrage, so quickly that if Thorin had not known him for more than a century he would not have been able to read anything but the last.

Nori stared at him coldly for a moment longer before he turned and shuffled over to Ori’s side, murmuring reassurance to his teary-eyed younger brother – obviously distraught over the news of their missing member.

Thorin might have felt badly for Dwalin if he was not so distracted by his own racing thoughts. The Hobbit was gone? But where? And when? Hadn’t he just been there? Hadn’t they been tossing him around like a child, hadn’t he been snarking at the whole of them as if there hadn’t been a pack of orcs on their tail?

Hadn’t Thorin just held him in his arms a moment ago? Hadn’t he been there, warm and frightened and bright eyed, hands clutching at Thorin as if his life depended on it?

Maybe it had, whispered some dark thing in his mind.

“I brought him, and I don’t bring people that are of no use,” Tharkûn – no, Gandalf, snapped back, as furious as Thorin had ever seen him, “Either you help me look for him, or I leave you all here to sort out your own mess. If we can only find him again you will thank me before this is all over.”

“Well, who saw him last?” Bofur said, stepping up and fiddling anxiously with his hat.

“I thought Dori had him,” Glóin answered, bright eyes glaring at Dori with such hostility that Thorin might have been taken aback if he had been truly paying attention to any of it.

“Don’t blame me!” Dori shouted, prim and indignant, even if his fear and guilt were obvious behind the outrage, “You’d have dropped him too, if you’d been knocked flat like I had!”

“What happened exactly?” Gandalf said, commanding and fierce before any of the others could start the argument that they so clearly ached to. “Tell me!”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Thorin interrupted, voice surprisingly steady despite his crushing panic, “Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it!”

Yes, he left, just as he would have that night, under the cover of darkness, if he hadn’t been stopped.

“He’s thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door!” And he hadn’t but why should he? He was a Hobbit, and he had no business here, he shouldn’t have been here – why had Thorin brought him here?

“We will not be seeing our Hobbit again. He is long gone.” And Thorin told himself that he had gone home, back to the Shire, that somehow, he had made his way through a thousand orcs and a labyrinth, and treacherous mountain passes, and all the dangers of the wild. That someway, he had wandered his way back to his warm little home, that he was there, alive and safe, and curled up in his little sitting room with one of his old books.

He was not gone. Not lost to the mountains, not taken by orcs. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.

“No,” a voice said, soft but firm, from on the rise, and Thorin didn’t dare to hope, “he isn’t.”

“Bilbo Baggins!” Cried Gandalf, and Thorin choked on his breath, something thick and wet clawing up his throat, because it was, it was Bilbo Baggins, right there, battered and bruised, dirty and bleeding from his split lip, but alive and not gone – not to Orcs or to the safety that Thorin could not promise him. “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life!”

The Hobbit stumbled down from his hill – except he didn’t really, not like Thorin had expected him too, not like he would have a month ago. Something had changed in him and Thorin did not know him well enough to place it. He patted Balin kindly on the shoulder as he passed, and Thorin was surprised by the relief he saw in the old dwarf’s eyes. Relief that he felt just as keenly, if not more, but that he kept hidden for fear of the suddenness of it.

“Bilbo, we’d given you up!” Cried Kíli, painfully relieved and unaware or uncaring of the cruelty of telling him such a thing.

“How on Arda did you get past the goblins?” Fíli called, just as relieved, just as brazen.

“Yes,” Gandalf muttered, eyes harder than they had been a moment ago, relief tinged with suspicion that Thorin was too overwhelmed to be wary of, “how indeed?”

The Hobbit met his eyes, and chuckled nervously, putting his hands on his generous hips and Thorin could see then a bloody scrape running up his arm where his sleeve pulled back at the motion. Something heavy and writhing dropped in his stomach and Thorin suddenly did not know what to do with himself. He felt like he should have done something then, though he could not for the life of him think what.

“Well,” Gandalf said after a tense moment, clearing his throat and smiling warmly, “what does it matter, hm? He’s back!”

“It matters!” Thorin barked, tense and without thought, because it did matter, it did. “Why did you come back?”

They had given him up. Cursed his name, refused to go back for him, abandoned him to a mountain of orcs – they had left him. He had tried to leave them, yes, but it had not been the same. He had known that they could protect themselves, they had not been in imminent danger. They had known that he would not survive on his own and they had almost let him die.

Thorin had almost let him die.

He had not even wanted to be there, and he would have died because of Thorin.

The Hobbit blinked at him for a moment, large eyes bright and exhausted and so very tired that Thorin felt the shame burning in his gut catch ablaze.

“Look,” he began, silver-bell voice soft and raspy with exertion – from running, Thorin thought, from screaming, he feared, “I know you doubt me; I know you always have. And you’re right,” he said, a little self-deprecating chuckle escaping him, and scraping at something in Thorin’s already abused throat, “I often think of Bag End. I miss my books. And my armchair. And my garden.”

His face twisted into something fond then, something wistful and precious, and Thorin knew that feeling, knew it like the back of his hand, except he did not know it warm and green and close, he knew it burning and cold and far, far away.

“See, that’s where I belong. That’s home.” He said, firm and resolute, and burning with that fire that he had shown in glimpses; in an argument with a king, in a quip at a wizard, in a challenge to gossiping elf-lords; except so much brighter now, so much fuller, and fiercer. “And that’s why I came back, because you don’t have one. A home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can.”

And Thorin could hardly breathe for the warmth in this Hobbits eyes, felt his throat and his eyes burn because he was fierce and proud where Thorin had never bothered to hope to see him be.

Because he had left behind his whole world for a group people he had never met and wanted for nothing in return. Because he was scared and so out of his depth that it was painful to watch and yet he came back. Because he was here for Thorin. To help Thorin reclaim his home - not to help a King reclaim his kingdom and Thorin had never known that the difference would mean anything at all until it meant everything.

He smiled at Thorin shakily then, as if he expected that Thorin would rebuff him, and Thorin felt a stab of shame at the thought.

He opened his mouth to reassure him, to thank him, to apologize –

Howling broke the silence, sending all the Company to their feet.

Wargs.

Thorin bit out a curse, saw the terror rekindle in verdant eyes, and took up his sword once more.

“Out of the frying pan,” he growled, resigned, furious, and frustrated in equal measure.

“And into the fire!” Replied Gandalf, already spinning on his heel.

They pick up their run again, and this time Thorin swore to keep a close watch over the rust-gold curls that he had nearly lost.

He would have to do better.

* * *

[i] Fundin was Dwalin and Balin’s Father and Thorin’s third cousin, once removed.

[ii] Dain canonically decapitated Azog as the Orcs made their retreat past the East-gate. Again, he was thirty-two at the time which would be about the maturity equivalent of a fourteen-year-old Man. Old enough to theoretically fight but certainly not ready for it.

[iii] The War of Dwarves and Orc began when King Thrór, in his despondence after being exiled from Erebor and struggling to reestablish his people in Dunland, made an expedition to Khazad-dûm with only his closest follower Nár. He found the East-gate beyond the valley Azanulbizar open and – mad and desperate – ventured in despite the pleas of his friend. Nár waited for his return for several days until at last his body was thrown down the steps – his head decapitated and the name ‘Azog’ carved into it. When he reported this to Thrain, the now King declared war on the Orcs in vengeance and called all Seven Houses to his aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came so much easier than the previous two but I think it might be because I was excited to get to Riddles in the Dark.
> 
> Orcs and Goblins are the same thing, despite what most who had only watched the movies assume. Orc is the Rohirric translation, often used by Hobbits and the Rohirrim, and Goblin is the Sindarin translation used by most everyone else.
> 
> The reason that the Misty Mountain goblins and Azog and his crew look so different is likely because Gundabad Orcs are distinctly bred for war and raids where the Misty Mountain orcs had spent many long years keeping to their own mountain passes and preying on easy targets wandering through.
> 
> Also, in the book Bilbo was with the dwarrow when they met the Great Goblin and they did up and cart him around the caves on their shoulders. It wasn't in the movies and I was very disappointed.
> 
> All of our favorite Dwarf Lords were actual children during Azanulbizar and that's super horrifying! Thorin doesn't really think about it but he was only eight years older than Frerin. The man has trauma!
> 
> Up next is Riddles in the Dark and our favorite stinker! I'm very excited to write this part.
> 
> If you have any questions feel free to ask and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.


	8. Riddles in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caves, and riddles, and nasty, slimy things. Bilbo puts his sword to use and is not prepared for the toll it takes.  
(Warnings for violence, mild gore, mentions of self harm and cannibalism.)

Bilbo opened his eyes to pitch dark.

He wondered, dazedly, if the fall had left him blind. He had never known a dark like this, so complete and unforgiving that he wondered if he had even opened his eyes at all – but even with his eyes closed the black had never been as complete as this.

The stone was cold beneath him, something soft and vaguely moist cushioning him from his no doubt deadly fall. He could feel the familiar thrum of life through it, faint and well-known to him, comforting enough to ground him from where he floated motionless in the void.

He had thought that he was going to die.

When the great hulking monstrosity had burst from the bridge, the force of it had thrown Dori back, and Bilbo right off of his shoulders. He had tried for a moment to regain his footing, but he had landed too far from the rest of the Company. Goblins had grabbed at him in the chaos, smothering his shouts with their bony hands and their wicked blades digging into his throat. He had found it in him to struggle, writhing in their grip and flailing his elvish sword wildly in hopes of an escape.

He had not thought, before all this, that he would ever be the fighting sort. When it came to fight or flight, he had always thought that he would freeze or flee before he ever struck out at another.

But when Orcs had pulled him apart from the Company, there in that haphazard trial, when their King had howled for Bilbo’s suffering - Bilbo had been terrified, had been near tears, in fact, but somehow he had found himself kicking and screaming and cursing where by all rights he ought to have cowered.

He remembered how Bofur and Dori had clung to him before the Orcs had beat them back, he remembered the way that Kíli and Fíli had shouted his name, and he remembered how Thorin had roared.

But there at the end, when he had been thrown from Dori’s back, when he had been taken once again, only without even the reprieve to scream – there had been no one to call for him then.

He had bit at putrid flesh and kicked at whichever beast was nearest, but they had learned from their previous scuffle and stayed clear of his feet. They struggled though, to dodge the erratic movements of his blade, glowing as it was they could hardly look at it, and his panic made the movements unpredictable enough that he had managed to maim quite a few before he had the chance to escape.

It was only then that he managed to turn in his capture’s grip, to beat at the orc with his fist and the pommel of his sword. The beast had thrown him to the ground, snarling and enraged, and Bilbo had felt something crack as he landed. The orc had been on him again before he had time to wonder what it had been. They had scuffled for several dreadfully long moments, and Bilbo could hardly remember anything much of it but for the screech and spittle and the frantic heart stopping need to get away.

At last he had thrown the orc off of him, but before he had scrambled away, it had thrown itself onto his back, reaching for his throat, and sent them both barreling off of the scaffolding.

Bilbo didn’t remember if he had screamed or not. He remembered only the feeling of his stomach giving way with the gravity and the surge of desperate magic through him that he had no hope would help.

It was a lucky thing that he had summoned that last minute well of power, as it was only the reluctant cradle of these mushrooms that had kept him from being maimed beyond all hope, he was sure.

Slowly he rolled over and climbed to his feet, careful of his aching back, and knees, and arms, and – well, everything, really.

He kicked against something cold and familiar as he stood. Carefully, he felt around for his sword’s hilt and finding it he fumbled with the sheath, somehow avoiding cutting off his own fingers in the process.

He waddled carefully along; arms stretched out in front of him until he found the wall. Leaning against it he closed his eyes to ward off his aching head, though he knew there was no light to hide from. He groped along the wall, looking for anything at all, any sign of dwarrow or even orcs. Bífur had told him once, through Bofur, that dwarrow marked out their halls and tunnels and mines with guiding runes along the walls. Always at hip height, to help lost children find their way home or a drunk or visiting dwarf who had lost his way.

Bilbo would not have known how to follow those signs had he found them, but they would have been comforting and familiar, distinctly dwarvish, and warmer than the featureless rock that he found now.

He wished for a wild moment that he had been able to feel the stone the way that the dwarrow did, or that he could feel any pull of life through the rock. All he had was the quite whispering of fungi, slow and distorted and just as likely to confuse as to help, he knew.

(Hobbits had a deep appreciation for fungi and all of their many uses, both in healing and cooking, and occasionally, the odd Hobbit would find a recreational use or two for them. Still they made for confusing conversation, and often led a trusting Hobbit into mischief or danger. Bilbo did not know these mushrooms as he had the ones that grew in the Shire, and he trusted them much less.)

His head was swimming and he couldn’t tell what direction he was facing, or what direction they had been going for that matter.

The mushrooms whispered to him, urging him in a direction through the dark, and he knew that it wasn’t wise to listen, that mushrooms were favorites of the fae’s garden for a reason, that they never said or did or tasted quite like one expected them to. But he was dizzy, and lost, and he didn’t see any better options.

He listened to the whispering of the only life beneath the stone and made his way deeper into the dark. He began to crawl on his knees, embarrassed but reasoning that there was no one to see him and that he would much rather be close to the ground beneath his feet in the case that there was some sudden cliff before him.

It was then that he came upon a small piece of what felt like metal. At first, he had thought it to be some bit of orcish armor, some ring from their mail, but when he picked it up, he knew that it wasn’t so. He could not see it but somehow, he knew at once its shape and size and color, he knew the way that firelight glinted on the golden surface, he knew the deceptive chill of its touch and the whisper of its voice.

He knew at once that it was lovey and awful and his.

Without thought, he shoved it into his pocket, at once letting the knowledge and the power slip from his mind. He had to keep moving, had to find a way out, or else be lost to this crushing darkness for the rest of his days.

He moved along, but he found no exit, no path, no sign of dwarf or orc or wizard. He heard nothing but his own shuffling and the steady echoing drip of water far away. His heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears and he had to stop, forcing himself to breathe through his encroaching panic.

Hobbits were not strangers to living beneath ground, but this was too much, even for him. A smial always had plenty of fresh air, and light, and a winding, circular certainty to it. Here, in the deep and the dark, where not even sound dared to venture, he felt as though he could feel the entire range of mountains bearing down upon his head. There was no order to these winding paths and his head spun so that he could not even grasp what direction he was facing.

Would Erebor feel like this?

Is this what the Company longed for? Bilbo could not believe it, did not think that this is what called them home, though he did not know enough about mountains to be able to tell.

(Hadn’t Nori whispered of gold and treasure, and relics? Hadn’t Bífur spoken of soaring arches and glowing enclosed streets? Ori had sighed over leagues of murals in public walkways and a library to rival any in the East, even the dusty catacombs of Minas Tirith, and free to the public in a way that the White City’s shelves were not. Balin had spoken of sweeping markets, and the smell of dwarvish breads, and the chatter of a mountain alive with trade, and craft, and life.

Thorin had said nothing of it, but Bilbo saw all these things in the longing and the focus in his pale eyes.)

He thought then of the things that called him home. Of his mother’s doilies, her emerald brooch where it laid abandoned on an end table, his father’s dusty armchair. He thought of frying bacon and eggs in his kitchen, thought of the smell of lilac in the summer rain. He thought of children’s laughter and the warmth of night beneath the Party Tree. He was hungry, but this was hardly new, as he had been hungry for a good while before Rivendell and every day since, and it only served to make him wallow more in his despair.

He did not know what to do, did not know what had happened to the others, did not know if they had begun to look for him – truthfully, he did not know if they would.

(Fíli and Kíli were fond of him, and the brothers Ri, and the family Ur, and Gandalf, certainly, but well, he was only a little Hobbit in the grand scheme of things.

A King ought not stop such a grand quest for the likes of him.)

Upset and uncertain, he felt around for his pipe and his pouch of weed – no longer Old Toby or even Long Bottom Leaf, but some Elvish weed that he had been gifted by one of Elrond’s sons, though he could not tell which if asked.

He found his pipe and felt some small relief and hope rekindle in him before he drew it from his pocket. In the dark, he felt around for the bowl, and felt his heart sink as his fingers skittered over the crack that ran along it, and the one he felt run up the stem, and when he got to the top, the shattered tip.

It was just as well, he tried to console himself, as who knew what striking a match in the dark would summon from the dank holes of this horrible place.

Groping around his pockets he tried to see what else of his had been lost to these caves and to take stock of whatever meager possessions he had left.

(To think, he was Master Baggins of Bag End, the Thain’s grandson, filthy and hungry and cold, at the bottom of a Goblin’s Mountain, with naught but the clothes on his back and the sword on his hip.

It was just as well that he die here, because he didn’t think that even the Took clan would survive the embarrassment of him coming home.)

Thinking this, he remembered his sword and drawing it, startled at the faint blue glow that it gave. Orcs, not close, but still far too close for comfort.

He had been a fool to forget that he had not fallen down the abyss alone.

Still, he was not as afraid as he probably should have been. Before this quest, he would have been terrified, but now, he had faced orcish hunting packs, their wargs, and their legions below the earth. One orc was not so much it seemed, especially in the face of the comfort of his elvish blade. A sword of Gondolin, forged for the Goblin-wars, of which so many songs had been sung, enough that even the secluded Shire had heard their glory. The glow of his sword seemed to have some effect on their weak eyes, at any rate, and this was a comfort when he had nothing else and no hope besides.

His head had cleared somewhat, and he felt as though he had a better sense of where he was going. Hobbits walked better than men underground, even if they were not as skilled as dwarrow, they were still ground dwelling folk.

He could not stay put, sitting in the dark and sniveling while he waited for an orc to come and tear out his throat. He could not go back, and there were no tunnels leading off of the cavern in which he found himself, and so the only thing he could do was continue forward. He stood, and with his glowing sword illuminating his path, moved carefully along.

(If he was careful, and quiet, he could sneak up on even a well-trained orc, he knew. And this breed of mountain-orc seemed rather dull compared to the fearsome wit of their warg-riding cousins.

This did not mean that he was not filled with terror at the thought, but he knew that there was little other choice. Perhaps it was cowardly to sneak about and hide, but he could not sit and wait for help that would not come, and neither could he hope to win such a fight.

At this point, honor could hang itself. He cared only for survival.)

The tunnels seemed to have no end. He continued on in the same direction, and even as the path twisted and turned, he could feel that he was moving toward the same goal. It was however more and more obvious that he was moving steadily downward where he had rather desperately hoped to be moving up.

Passages began to appear to the sides, but he dared not venture in, dared not even to look into them. He kept his eyes steadily on the ground before him. There are worse things in the deep and the dark than orcs, even he knew, and he tried to pay no mind to the half-imagined movement in the shadows.

He hated this, this constant walking without a destination, the fear of the dark, and the way that his sword’s light began to sting at his eyes. He hated to continue on, but he dared not to stop, and on he went until he was more tired than he could ever remember being before.

And then from the dark, he heard the splash of a lake upon the shore. He had not realized until now, but he had been following the steady splash of water, some inborn Hobbitish instinct to find water and safety in the fertile soil that always followed in river valleys.

He did not venture further, wary of the water and its unknown depths, knowing quiet well what happened to wayward hobbits who ventured too close to the water’s edge. He had not been often in Buckland where water-fond hobbits were common and had no occasion or desire to ever learn to swim – though now he thought that it might have been wiser to.

He knew also that there were strange things living in the pools and lakes of mountains; fish whose fathers swam in, years and years ago, and never swam out again, while their eyes grew bigger and bigger from trying to see in the blackness – and things slimy and wriggling and worse than fish.

He was drawn from his nervous musings by the sound of a groan, and a wet cough, and the flare of his sword growing ever brighter.

He remembered then, that goblins built nothing of their own, and that these tunnels were too well carved to have formed naturally, and he wondered if the original carvers were still here, lurking in odd corners, keeping quiet and curious in the deepening dark and watching the goblins run around their homes.

The groaning was joined by scraping, the sound of nails on loose rock, and Bilbo could not help but peer out around the cave wall. There was the goblin, or at least a goblin, bloodied and clearly in pain as it tried to drag itself away from the shore. How it had ended up all the way down here, bloodied and broken, while he had landed relatively unharmed so much further up was a mystery to Bilbo.

A mystery that he had no time to ponder. From the darkness something moved, behind the goblin, something silent and nearly shapeless in the dark, but for two eerie lamps peering out from the black.

“Yes,” hissed a voice, scratchy and raw, hissing through the cavern and over the water loud enough to make Bilbo flinch back, “Yes, yes, yes! Gollum, Gollum.” The creature hacked up strange wet coughs, almost sounding like words, almost like curses.

The creature moved around the goblin, circling it, and Bilbo could barely make out spidery limbs, and lank, greasy strings of hair. It was humanoid, he could see, but it looked sick and starved and its eyes too big for its thin, twisted face. It grabbed the orc by the ankle and began to drag it back toward the water even as it struggled weakly.

Bilbo thought that this must be why the orc had been trying to crawl away, that maybe it had not been so beaten when it had come upon this lake.

The orc continued to flail, and the creature, growing angry, spat at it and reached for a rock. Feeling sick, Bilbo ducked behind the cave wall, closing his eyes against the wet thud of the stone against the orc’s skull. He felt his stomach turn, though he knew he had nothing in it to expel in his horror and disgust.

“Nasty goblinses,” hissed the creature, angry and foul, the sound of something being dragged forcing Bilbo to look once more, “better than old bones, precious, better than nothing.”

He saw the creature slink back into the dark, and desperately he followed. If the creature lived here it must leave at some point, must go out to get food, or breath fresh air. It crawled into a boat and paddled away into the lake, not a sound echoing as it glided.

(Bilbo ignored the voice that whispered at him to leave it alone, to turn back the way he came and wander the caves instead of risking being found by this walking corpse who he somehow knew had not seen the sun for years and years.)

“Too many boneses, precious! Nothing but flesh,” it moaned, no longer angry but piteous, dragging the felled orc up to the peak of an island that Bilbo could just make out from his hiding place on the shore, “Shut up! Get it’s skin off; start with the head!” It barked, angry, and urgent, though there was no one to yell at but its own self.

It began to sing, warbling merrily as it fussed around the corpse.

“The cold hard lands, they bites our hands, they gnaws our feet; the rocks and stones, they’re like old bones, all bare of meat; cold as death, they have no breath, it’s good to eat!”

It lifted its skeletal hand high above the corpse and Bilbo could just make out the shape of another rock and ducked back hastily to avoid the sight. He still heard the sick squelch of wet flesh, and the crunch of breaking bone, still felt his insides turn over again and he wondered if he could stand to sit here and listen to this thing devour it whole.

He saw then, the light from his sword flicker and fade, darkness encroaching on him and bringing with it the sinking realization that all was silent.

The singing had stopped.

“Bless us and splash us,” whispered the creature, and Bilbo could not help the scream that escaped as he flung himself blindly into the dark, desperate to get away from the voice behind him, the stinking breath in his ear.

“I guess it’s a choice feast!” The creature snickered, a delighted smile cracking its slick face, pale lamp eyes staring at him as it crawled closer, “A tasty meaty morsel; more on its bones than goblinses anyway!”

Bilbo flung his sword forward, desperate to stop the thing’s advance, and it jerked back and howled horribly at the sight.

“Stay back! Back!” He cried, voice reedier than he would like, and knees knocking together, though his arms stayed surprisingly steady even as his feet slipped on uneven stone, “I’m warning you, don’t come any closer!”

This thing was going to eat him. Eat him! What kind of creature would eat another person? The kind that ate Orc, he supposed, the kind that sang as it butchered their corpses.

(What kind of song would it sing for Bilbo’s?)

“It’s got an elfish blade,” hissed the creature, circling him now, glowing eyes curious, and wide, “but it’s not an elfs. Not an elfs, no, what is it, precious? What is it?”

He gagged at the stench of it, at the way that he could count its ribs beneath its slimy flesh, the thin, cracked pit of its mouth. Its spine rose in a knobby ridge along its hunched back like a deep-sea fish and its fingers scrabbled absently at the rock as it crawled on all fours, knobby knees bent grotesquely.

“I am Mr. Bilbo Baggins,” he answered, spinning to face it, large feet steady though he kicked at loose pebbles.

“Bagginses? What is a Bagginses?” Asked the thing, and Bilbo thought that he probably shouldn’t have given his name, though he did not see what harm it could do, he felt that it was a mistake – who knew what magic this creature possessed? A name was a powerful thing he knew, even more so when magic was at work.

“I’m a - a Hobbit,” he answered, wincing at his own compulsion to respond politely, “from the Shire.”

“Oh!” The thing cried, some recognition passing it’s wan face, something dark and afraid and longing quickly being washed away by childlike delight, “We like goblinses, and batses, and fishes, but we hasn’t tried Hobbitses before! Is it soft? Is it juicy?”

Its voice changed then, darkening with intent as it crawled toward him on all fours, and he forced himself not to see its large feet, its nimble fingers, the familiar point of its pale ears.

He had thought that he could not be more afraid, but he was now. Somehow, this was worse, the familiarity of it made it so much worse than some wicked thing borne from the dark could ever hope to be.

He swung his sword wildly, desperate to ward off the creature and the horror of his own thoughts.

“Now, now, k-keep your distance!” He bit out, blade careful and precise the way that his wavering voice was not. “I’ll use this if I have to!” He warned, though even he did not believe the threat.

The thing snarled at him, opened its mouth and screeched, and he swung his sword at it, forcing it back, cowering but intent.

“I don’t want any trouble, you understand! Just, just, show me the way out of here and I’ll be on my way!” He cried, desperate to get away, for this nightmare to end.

“Why, is it lost?” Asked the creature, soft and curious, as it crawled behind a rock and peered at him, pale eyes wet and glowing with interest, trailing up the elvish blade in wonder.

“Yes, yes. I have lost the dwarrow, and I have lost the wizard, and I don’t know where I am.” He answered, desperate and afraid, not taking his eyes off the creature’s though he wished desperately that he could. Those too were familiar, even malformed, and ruined by the dark as they were. “And I don’t want to know, as long as I can get out.”

One of many things that he would rather not have learned, this creature being chief amongst them.

“Ooh! We knows, we knows safe paths for Hobbitses! Safe paths in the dark!” It said, voice delighted and kind, and Bilbo wished that it would just be quiet, just go away, because it sounded so much like a fauntling then, that it turned his blood to ice.

“Shut up!” It barked, thin mouth twisting into a hateful snarl before he could open his own to reply.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, slowly, cautiously.

“Wasn’t talking to you,” it snapped at him, almost absently, before its face softened, “but, yes, we was, precious, we was!”

“Look,” he said, wrong footed and anxious, “I don’t know what your game is, but I –”

“Games!” It chirped excitedly, abruptly leaping closer to him, just remembering to stop before it impaled itself on his sword, “We love games, doesn’t we, precious? Does it like games? Does it? Does it? Does it like to play?”

“Maybe?” He answered, lost, but sticking to the blatantly foolish honesty he’d begun this conversation with.

And he did like games, truthfully. He was the Spring Fair Conkers Champion three years in a row and was good at chess, marbles, and all games that delighted children. He was a fair hand at any number of card games – had put a good few gamblers in a tight spot more than once, though he had always returned his winnings, having no need of them – and in his youth had once or twice won the titles for Trick Shot Champion in the annual Hatchet Throwing and Archery contests, held always three hours after the Conkers tournament, to allow time to distract little ones of course.[i]

“It likes riddles, praps it does, does it?” The creature asked in some attempt at sweetness, “The only game we know, it is. Used to play it before, with the other funny little things sitting in holes.” It scuttled around to his side, and he spun to keep his blade at its throat. “In the long, long ago, before we was driven away.” It smiled up at him, black mouth and rotten teeth beseeching him, and he desperately wished that it had kept that information to itself.

“Very well,” he said, desperate to buy himself some time, time enough to think, or to gather his nerve if he could not sneak away.

(He had thought that all he cared about was survival, but at what cost? Would he be able to do the unthinkable if it meant he lived? He didn’t think he could do it. He couldn’t, could he?

Gollum, here, however could. And would.)

The thing howled in delight, spun in a crouched half circle, and threw its hands up as if to beg silence.

“What has roots as nobody sees,  
is taller than trees,  
up, up it goes,  
and yet never grows?”

He stared at if for a moment, thinking the riddle over absently, but for the most part wondering what he was doing playing at riddles with such a thing.

“The mountain,” he answered, bland and hesitant, unsure if his easy answer would trigger the creature’s violent temper.

The creature shrieked in delight, its voice echoing grotesquely off the cave, and Bilbo had to step back at the shrillness of it.

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes; oh, does it guess easy? Yes, come on, do it again, do it – do it again. Ask us,” it giggled at him, uncontrollably thrilled, swaying precariously on its haunches, “No! No more riddles. Finish him off. Finish him now. Gollum! Gollum!”

It rushed at him, then, black mouth snarling, as he threw out his hand, sword still raised and steady despite the fear that thundered through him.

“No!” He shouted, desperate and grasping at straws, “No, no, no. I wa- I want to play,” He said, summoning a faulty grin to placate the thing, waving his hand at it airily as if that alone would stop its advance. And he knew this was a foolish plan, knew that if this creature was half as mad as he thought it to be it was just as likely to tear out his throat as to agree. He was breathing too quickly in his panic, but he had to at least try to seem sincere. “I do. I want to play. I can see you are very good at this,” The thing began to smile at him, pleased and hopeful, and he took a slow step forward as he spoke, “So- so, why don’t we have a game of riddles? Yes, just, just you and me.”

Seeing the hesitation in those pale eyes, he crouched slowly to the ground, lowering his blade only a fraction, though not enough that he wouldn’t be able to bring it up in a moment. Just as he had thought that it would, the creature slithered closer, knobby fingers twisting together with a mischievous smile, like a naughty fauntling confiding in a playmate.

“Yes!” It agreed, whispering frantically, though there was no one to overhear them, no one but the Orc that they had both had a hand in slaying, “Yes, just, just – just us.”

He swallowed thickly to avoid gagging at the stench of it, the bizarre macabre familiarity of its eagerness – the faint memories of playing riddles with other children and whispering to each other in the dark. The corn-flower blue visible between the uneven cloudiness in those bulbous, tainted eyes.

“Yes,” he said, horror and pity and disgust catching in his throat, “Yes. And – and if I win, you show me the way out, hm?”

“Yes, yes,” it agreed easily, and Bilbo almost sighed at the ease of it before the thing’s mouth twisted once more into that ugly sneer, “And what if it loses? What then?”

He opened his mouth in shock and fear, not knowing what to answer, brain working a mile a minute and still terribly empty.

“Well, precious, if it loses, then we eats it!” It said, face sweet and patient as though it was answering a particularly ignorant question very politely, “If Baggins loses, we eats it whole, hm?” It said, turning back to him, face wan and skeletal and hopeful.

He stared back at it, dumbfounded, and yet somehow not nearly as affronted as one should be when bargaining their own murder. He blinked at it, looked away for one foolish moment, and thought it over.

He didn’t see much choice – he would die either way; murdered by this shadow dweller or starving and lost in these tunnels.

(If he did die, and he hoped that he would if this thing was what he thought it was, if this is what became of things that lived where they ought not to, for longer than they were meant to.

It was a morbid thought but as of late he had become rather familiar with his impending death, and somewhere along the line the panic had become so constant that he barely even registered it.)

“Fair enough.” He agreed, nodding his head once and setting his shoulders. He stood, took a few steps away and thought, trying to recall all of his childhood misadventures, all of the riddles that he’d read, and heard, and told. Absently, he sheathed his sword, finding it distracting as he paced on the smooth pebbles, cloudy eyes watching him curiously.

“Well, Baggins first,” it chirped, settling behind a boulder and propping its chin on its hands almost demurely.

Nodding, he thought a moment longer, hand rubbing at his mouth before something came to him.

“Aha!” He cheered, snapping his fingers and smiling to himself in satisfaction before he turned and addressed his patiently waiting murderer.

“Thirty white horses on a red hill,  
first they champ,  
then they stamp,  
then they stand still.”

It was something Old Took had riddled him with once, and well, the thought of eating was presently all he could think of. The creature muttered to itself, hopeful face screwing up in thought and it brought its hand to its mouth in a gesture familiar enough to knock whatever smugness he’d summoned from him.

“Chestnuts, chestnuts,” it hissed absently to itself, before realization lit its blank eyes, and it turned its awful smile on him, “Teeth! Yes, my Precious. But we – we – we only have six.”

It gaped it putrid maw at him then, larger than it ought to be, rotting and with only six, pointed, blackened teeth. It snapped it shut with a click and a childish giggle when the suddenness caused him to flinch back.

“Our turn,” It purred, smiling deviously as it crawled toward him, forcing him back, though he kept a boulder between them. He suddenly regretted sheathing his blade.

“Voiceless it cries,  
wingless it flutters,  
toothless bites,  
mouthless mutters.”

“Just a moment,” he said, already thinking and walking off, desperate not to lose, trying to think of anything other than empty growling stomachs and black, black, rotting teeth. The creature muttered to itself, arguing over nonsense, trying to distract him, he was sure. Then he remembered hearing something like this once, from – oh, maybe Roper Gamgee? Or Lilac Hornblower? Old Bolger? Oh, it didn’t matter, if the answer was the same. “Wind. Wind, of course!” He cried in delight and relief, turning quickly to face the snarling beast.

“Very clever, Hobbitses,” it said, angry and intent as it skulked ever closer, too close, “very clever.”

He fumbled to pull his sword, frantically pushing it between the monster and him, eyes going wide as it startled, and he began to speak before it could react.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah,” he croaked, breath too startled to form real words or threats,

“A-an eye, an eye in a blue face,  
saw an eye in a green face,  
‘That eye is like to this eye,’  
said the first eye,  
‘but in low place,  
not in high place.’”

And he knew that this one would give him some time, as he had made it up on the spot and the creature could not have possibly heard it before.

(Not to mention that he was quite sure that it had been down here in the deep and the dark long enough to forget these things.

Or maybe he hoped so, maybe he was testing it, trying to convince himself that he was wrong or that there was too little left here to pity if he was right.

That it would be alright to draw blood here, that it would be no different than an orc.)

The creature stopped its advance, sat heavily and tilted its ill formed head, muttering faintly to itself. He backed away, moved carefully behind a boulder as he did, and looked around, trying to see if he could spot an escape now that his eyes had adjusted more to the dark. He found no exit, just the sickening sight of bones littered along the shore that he had not been able to see before.

“No, no, think before, before,” the thing muttered to itself, scowl marring its ghostly face, picking at a stone with its fingers, tearing at the nail and causing itself to bleed, “think of grandmother, precious, and our hole in the bank on the river, before, before.”

Bilbo could count its ribs there, and the jagged scars that ran along its sides in groups of five. Almost like claw marks, almost like hands and he wondered if this thing grew so bored here in the dark all alone that it drew its own blood to fill the emptiness.

“Ssss, ssss,” it began to hiss and rock side to side, humming something old and sweet to itself, even as it dug its gory nail further against the blood-soaked stone, “sun – sun on the daises.”

Bilbo nodded his assent even as he felt something cold and awful fill his stomach. The creature looked up at him and it did not seem pleased by its victory this time. It scowled, tsked, and picked up the bloody stone, casting it into the lake with a snarl. Bilbo’s eyes caught onto a shiny bit next to a discarded bone, a small bone, and a dirty silver baby rattle. Bilbo had to close his eyes against the bile that burned his throat. When the thing looked back at him, it seemed angry and frightened.[ii]

“It cannot be seen, it cannot be felt,  
cannot be heard, cannot be smelt.  
It lies behind stars and under hills,  
and empty holes it fills.  
It comes first and follows after,  
ends life, kills laughter.”

He did not need to think on this one, as the answer was around him, and in this creature’s eyes.

“Darkness,” he answered, though it came out dull and hollow, and he had guessed that it hadn’t been meant to stump as much as to make a point.

“Your turn,” the thing snarled, slithering around him in slow circles when he took too long to try and gather himself enough to speak.

“A – a box,” he said, closing his eyes and clutching his sword tighter as he forced himself to breathe deeply,

“A box without hinges, key, o – or lid,  
yet golden treasure inside is hid.”

It was not a very good one, but he was having trouble breathing and therefore trouble thinking.

The thing snarled and hissed and glared at him through milky eyes as it thought, never once stopping it predatory circling.

“Well?” He prompted, anxious of this waiting, of this circling, of this constant threat and thought and fear.

“Give us a chance; let it give us a chance, my precious,” it was whispering now, anger shifting to cruel teasing as a cat plays with a flighty bird cornered in the garden thicket. “Oh, oh, oh! Eggses! What crunchy little eggses, yes. Grandmother taught us to suck them, yes.”

Bilbo couldn’t help the slump of his shoulders at the thing’s answer, and the sound of its mad cackling. It echoed across the cave and startled a bat, sending it screeching and whirling past Bilbo’s head, forcing him to duck in fright.

When he looked back up, the thing was gone.

“Ahh. We have one for you,” came the echoing voice of Bilbo’s own breathing nightmare, untraceable and disembodied in the pitch dark,

“All things it devours,  
birds, beasts, trees, flowers.  
Gnaws iron, bites steel,  
grinds hard stones to meal.  
Slays kings, ruins towns,  
and beats high mountain down.”

Silence rang for a moment, Bilbo’s heart thundering as he spun around, looking for those pale lamp-like eyes in the dark, for the suggestion of spidery legs and bones through flesh.

“Answer us.” Came a snarl, and Bilbo could not help but to flinch.

“Give me a moment,” he demanded, though he had expected it to be a whimper, “I gave you a good long while.”

He paced, and searched, and thought, thought of mountains and kings, and things left forgotten in the dark and what they become.

“I don’t know this one,” he mumbled to himself, frantically thinking of every riddle he’d ever heard but it was no use, all his terrified mind kept circling back to was the thought of sapphire and steel, and a mountain that he would never reach.

“Is it tasty? Is it scrumptious?” He heard then the sound of damp skin against stone, the slick slide of death behind him. “Is it crunchable?” He felt fingers then, around his neck, but not yet, not quite, and he wrenched himself away from the rock, spinning to brandish his sword at the grinning horror.

“Let me think!” He yelled, angry where he should have been terrified, though he shook in either case. “Let me think.”

“It’s stuck,” crooned the thing, crawling down the stone like a reptile, spine moving in ways that he knew for a fact it was not meant to, “Bagginses is stuck!”

Bilbo paced, back and forth, sword and absent eye on the beast at all times, watching the pale curve of its cracked lips in the dark. Its eyes danced with mirth and it lifted its shoulders and hands in a shrug.

“Time’s up!” It cheered, and Bilbo shouted back at it before it could even begin to move.

“Time! Time – the answer – its time!” He breathed out a half mad chuckle of his own as he watched the thing snarl and curse as it threw a truly incredible fit, “Actually wasn’t that hard.” Once one got past the looming fear of being cannibalized, he thought.

“Last question!” The creature barked, furious, and drooling, “Last chance!”

He sputtered for a moment, mind still reeling and breath still short.

“Ask us. Ask us!” The thing screamed, practically shaking with the force of its rage.

“Yes, yes, alright!” He shouted back, huffing and beginning to pace again, he shoved his free hand in his pocket, a nervous tick that he never quite managed to quit.

He felt something then in his pocket, that he did not remember putting there. But, no, he did, it was the ring. His ring. His stomach lurched violently at its touch, and he wrenched his hand back in shock, though he reached for it again a moment later without thought.

It was cold and he did not like the feel of it, not at all, but somehow, he could hardly bare to let go of it.

“What have I got in my pocket?” He asked himself, absently, for surely there was something strange about it.

Spluttering tore him from his strange lost daze, hurtling him back into the awful, horrid present.

“That’s not fair. It’s not fair! It’s against the rules!” The thing shrieked, face twisted into a look of petulant disgust, grey and wan, and Bilbo could not understand how he forgot the horror of it for even a moment. “Ask us another one!” It demanded, and Bilbo realized at once that he had won.

“No, no, no, no,” he said, vindictive laughter escaping him, as he shook his head chidingly, “You said ‘Ask me a question.’ Well, that is my question. What have I got in my pocket?”

The creature snarled and threw itself toward him from its perch, though it stopped as soon as he lifted his sword.

“Three guesses,” it growled, voice hateful and fierce, holding up two fingers and Bilbo nearly snickered at it, “it must give us three guesses, precious.”

“Three guesses,” he agreed, smug and certain, “very well, guess away.”

“Handses!” It barked, immediate and violent, though not before Bilbo tore his own from his waist coat having seen the thing’s bulbous eyes focus on them preemptively.

“Wrong,” he cheered, “guess again.”

The thing spat and glared before it began to mutter to itself, moving away from him and finally giving him room to breathe. It began to slap the floor and rustle and shout to itself as it thought.

“Fish-bones, goblin’s teeth, wet shells, bat’s wings – knife!” It shouted the last of these, turning to face him expectantly, but turning away before he answered, face a snarl and rolling its awful eyes, “Oh, shut up.”

“Wrong again,” he said with a strangely smug smile, “Last guess.”

“String!” It said, whirling on him, before turning back in the other direction to face him again, “Or nothing!”

“Two guesses at once,” he chided, “wrong both times.”

The thing howled and fell to the floor as though struck, sobbing. Bilbo backed up at once, brandishing his sword in front of him cautiously. He knew of course that the riddle game was sacred and of immense antiquity, and even wicked creatures were afraid to cheat at it, but he could not trust this mad and withered thing to any sense or sanity. Although, the last question had not strictly been a riddle according to the relevant ancient laws, but one must do what is necessary in a pinch.

“So, come then, I won the game, you promised to show me the way out,” He said, eager to be done with this game, and out of this cave.

“Did we say so, Precious?” Muttered the wretched creature, dragging itself piteously from the floor, “Did we say so?” It turned, slowly, to glare at him, swollen eyes glowing ghostly blue in hatred. “What has it got in its pocketses?”

“That’s no concern of yours,” Bilbo said, suddenly struck with the terrible fear that it knew, somehow about the ring, and that it would take it from him, and that he would kill it before he let that happen, “You lost.”

“Lost? Lost?” It sneered, incredulous, as though he was spouting nonsense. “Lost?” it cackled, crawling slowly toward him, grinning all the while. Its bony fingers reached for its side, for the tattered cloth hiding whatever shame it had left and came away empty. It stared at its bare hand in confusion for a moment, before it reached again, scrabbling frantically at its cloth, and then its whole body, as if what its searching for could somehow be hidden in its sallow skin.

“Where is it? Where is it? No!” It howled, and then began to scream, blood chilling and painful, “Where is it? No! No!” It launched itself across the cave, scrabbling fitfully against the shore, sifting through bones and trinkets and stone and always coming away empty handed and distraught. “Lost! Curse us and splash us, my precious is lost!”

And Bilbo knew then what it had lost. What could turn a person to such darkness, to such growling, groveling lows. He knew what was lost and he knew where it was to be found.

He took the ring from his pocket, quickly while the creature was turned away, and hid it in a fist behind his back.

“What have you lost?” He asked trying to sound helpful, to sound concerned and consoling.

“Mustn't ask us!” It bit out, moaning and weeping as it did, “Not its business! No! Gollum, Gollum.”

It threw itself onto the shore, sobbing quietly into the water, and Bilbo searched desperately for any chance of escape, any way out that he might have missed before. Too quickly, though, the sobbing subsided and the creature’s back grew tense, its head raising slowly as it turned to glare at him in suspicion.

“What has it got in its nasty little pocketses?” It asked, half to itself as it raised from the ground, disbelief writ clear on its face, as though the idea that he had stolen it was incomprehensible.

Frightened, Bilbo raised his sword, taking a shuffling step backward and trying to breathe through his encroaching panic.

(It knew, it knew, it was going to take the ring!)

“He stole it,” it whispered, heartbroken, as if he had somehow betrayed it by doing so, as if it had trusted him, “He stole it. He stole it!” It began to scream at him, shaking with a rage that made its veins shine blue and grotesque under its skin where it tensed and howled. It reached then, for a stone and threw it at him, missing his head only because he ducked in fear and back peddled as quickly as he could over loose stone.

He ran and ran, as fast as he could down the adjoining tunnel without any idea where he was going and only the thought of escaping from this creature driving him. He ran faster than he ever had – faster than he had being chased by orcs or wargs or angry farmers. He ran as fast as he could and faster still. Desperately, he missed the puff of pipe-warm breath at his ear, the sure sound of steel tipped boots, the ghost of a large, calloused hand at his back.

He kept close to the wall, trailing his left hand along it to keep his path. He ran until he felt a side path break off from the one he was on and, desperate and adrenaline rattled, took the turn, only to find himself in a dead end cavern, no way out but a crack in the wall too small for his generous size to allow him passage through.

“Thief!” Howled the beast behind him, and he saw its pale misshapen form lumber past his entrance, somehow running on all fours like a beast and faster than he could upright. Its lamp like eyes glowed almost green in its rage and he could hear it snarling like some unholy thing from here. Gasping for air, he turned and forced himself through the gap.

He would have to make it, or die, he knew. Besides, he thought, half-hysterical, he had been starving for long enough that surely, he’d lost a bit of his stomach by now.

He saw then, as he struggled to wriggle through the gap, the pale spidery suggestion of limbs through the cave entrance, moving backward, in some inhuman movement, slow and precise and all wrong. Pale glowing eyes turned then, lazy and expectant, to stare at him, and he saw cracked lips split into a smile filled with pitch.

“It’s ours,” it hissed, dreadful and low, “it’s ours!” It snarled and then, quick as a flash it was upon him, screeching and grasping.

He gasped, and exhaled as much air as he could, sucking in his stomach and forcing himself, scraping and pinching painfully, through the gap. His waistcoat tore at the seams audibly and he heard and felt the pop of his lovely brass buttons as they scraped off their thread with the force.

He landed on his back, gasping for air and bruised in the ribs he was sure, and felt the ring slip from his closed fist, forced open upon his impact, and fly up into the open air. 

(And why had he kept it in his hand, instead of putting it back in its pocket? He didn’t remember making the conscious choice to do so.)

Reaching for it, the ring fell and twisted and, improbably, slipped firmly onto his finger. Before Bilbo had any time to process the way that the already dim and distorted shaped of the caves became even stranger, even more blurred, and unfamiliar and divorced from his understanding, the way that his ears all once sounded as though stuffed with cotton, the way that even his own breathing and the beating of his heart seemed muted and far away, the creature was upon him.

It leapt snarling from the crevice in the wall, thinner and slicker and more used to these feats than he and landed where he had been before he had rolled away. For a moment, he locked eyes with the beast though it did not seem to see him – not that this was any change from the blank stare of rage it had cast him since the start.

He was surprised then, when the thing took off down the cave ahead, not stopping to stone him or even choke the life from his throat.

“Thief!” It yelled, echoing oddly, far away though he could still see its strange grey glowing form in front of him, “Baggins!”

This was all very strange, he thought – not that his whole adventure hadn’t been one long string of strange after the other – for he had been certain that the creature could see in the dark and should not have missed him, not where he lay exposed on the cave floor. He stood on unsteady feet and seeing that his sword had begun to faintly glow again, sheathed it quietly.

The creature looked around and, snarling, took off down the tunnel, and seeing no better option, he followed on silent feet. Perhaps, this thing would prove itself true and lead him out, even if it did not know it.

He found the strange muted, blurred vision before him helped him to see better in the dark, as if all the background colors were cast into even deeper shadows, thereby revealing the foreground in their contrast. It was a good thing too, for silence was key now, especially when sneaking behind one who must be as skilled a sneak as he.

(The tall folk were unbearably loud at the best of times and dwarrow no better, he knew, but Shire-folk had always been quieter than elves and surer of foot if not as prone to show off. He didn’t doubt that this thing remembered at least that skill very well.)

“My birthday-present!” The thing wailed, never stopping its scrabbling hurry, swinging its head from side to side like an incensed dog, “Curse it! How did we lose it, my precious? Yes, that’s it! When we came this way last – when we collared that nasty little squeaker! That’s it! Curse it, it slipped from us after all these ages and ages! Oh, my precious, oh!” It wailed and whined and snarled as it took turn after turn, Bilbo close behind all the while.

All at once the thing wailed horribly, and collapsed onto the floor, crying in earnest and almost causing Bilbo to trip over it in its sudden stop. With a quiet gasp, he tracked back and pressed himself flat to the cave wall, wary and uncertain.

“No use going back to search, we don’t remember all the places we’ve been!” It cried, piteous and mournful before it snarled and barked its own response, “The Bagginses has got it in its pocketses, the nasty noser!”

“Oh, we guesses, precious, we only guesses,” it sniffled in answer before a cruel cough tore its throat and it answered angrily again, “We can’t know until we finds the nasty thing and squeezes it blue, we can’t.”

“It doesn’t know what the precious can do, does it? It can’t know, can it?” It asked, hopeful and sitting up, once more, rubbing snot from its skeletal nose, “It’ll just keep it in its pocketses. It can’t go far – its lost itself! It said so, it did!”

“It said so yes, but its tricksy. It doesn’t say what it means. It won’t say what it’s got it in is pocketses,” it spat at the floor, glowing eyes looking around the cavern anxiously, and almost stopping Bilbo’s heart before it passed over him, “It knows. It knows a way in; it must know a way out! The back door – its headed for the backdoor, it is!”

With a snarl and a spring, it got up and shot down a tunnel, leaving Bilbo scrambling to catch up. He was careful not to trip here, recalling faintly the despondent look on Thorin’s face every time he’d tripped over himself on the path up the mountains.

(He scowled to himself at the thought; he ought to worry more about his clumsiness making noise to give him away than making a damned dwarf upset.)

Though he quickly dismissed the thought in light of his disbelief and wonder; so, it seemed that he had stumbled upon a magic invisible ring! What luck! He had only ever heard of such things, in old tales; it was hard to believe he really had found one by accident. Still, the creature had passed him by, even with its bright eyes, and had itself said that the ring had a power to it.

On they went, the thing a sickening shadow that Bilbo wished he could once again shroud in darkness – the ring’s effects casting its body into gruesome detail. The lesions and sores, the scars and slick shine of its flesh. The bones that jutted beneath its nearly translucent skin, the odd angle at which its joints bent. It muttered directions to itself all the while, counting turns and tunnels.

As they went, its frantic pace slowed, and Bilbo could see that it was growing afraid. The water was long behind them, and Bilbo could see the shine of his blade forcing its way out of its sheath, so near were the orcs though he could not see them.

Then finally he could see the light.

Sunlight, bright and blessed and so very dear, though it was muted and far away. The creature balked at the sight, hesitating as it crept closer, and Bilbo had to restrain himself from running ahead to his escape.

Then, shouting, loud and deep and course as rumbling stone on the mountain and Bilbo’s chest seized at the familiarity of it. His throat closed and his eyes stung, and he saw then, a figure, tall as a tree and cloaked in dingy grey, staff raised towards the light, and sword toward the encroaching dark.

The creature squeaked and scrabbled behind an outcropping of stone, barring Bilbo’s path to his salvation, even as he saw thirteen softly glowing shapes run past, blue-bright, and clanking and cursing wonderfully as they did. Gandalf ran after them, and their steps faded back into the muted buzz of the ring’s shadow.

A cry almost escaped him, though he choked it back in the face of the creature’s wrath, so close and blocking him from his Company.

Uncertain, Bilbo drew his blade and stepped away from the wall.

Bilbo almost stopped breathing and went stiff. He was desperate. His Company had been there, and now they were gone, and he knew that they would not wait for him.

He had to get away – out of this horrible, soul-crushing darkness, now, while he still had the strength.

He had to fight.

He had to stab the thing; put its eyes out, kill it.

It meant to kill him.

No, not a fair fight, he knew. He was invisible. It had no sword.

It turned then to face him, milky eyes wide and wet with unshed tears.

It looked… lost, then. Frightened, and heartbroken, and alone.

A sudden understanding filled Bilbo then; a pity mixed with horror. A glimpse of unmarked days without light or hope of betterment, hard stone, cold fish, sneaking and whispering. No light, no love, no laughter. Only the deepening dark, and the voice of one’s own thoughts and the dripping of water.

He found himself trembling, tears falling unbidden where he had not expected them too.

The thing frowned then, sniffed the air. Its back stiffened and its eyes narrowed in suspicion.

He knew then that his time was up, and all at once he stepped back and leapt as high as he could over the creature. No great leap for a man, but a leap in the dark. Seven feet afar and three in the air and he nearly cracked his skull off of the cave roof.

The thing threw itself backward, snapping after him, but grasping only at thin air. Bilbo landed fair on his feet and without pausing for breath took off down the tunnel, desperate to follow the light of the sun and his dwarrow.

“Thief!” He heard the thing howl, “Baggins! Curse it! Curse it, we hates it forever! Baggins!”

He spared only a moment to feel the foreboding fear of that decree before he hurried on, only to come up short at the sight of a pack of orcs, armed and angry stamping and snarling at the cave exit.

They had chased after the dwarrow it seemed, coming down from another path in an attempt to cut them off and coming up short, left to snap at their heels for they could not bear direct sunlight.

They turned, and they saw him.

(The ring had slipped off his finger somehow, impossibly, as if by its own volition.)

The orcs howled and rushed at him, and he felt some pang off grief and fear, as if an echo of the howling creature at his back. Forgetting to lift his sword, he instead stuck his hand into his pocket, and huffed out a great sigh of relief when he felt the ring there.

He slipped it quickly onto his finger and the orcs drew up short.

“Where is it?” They snapped, lumbering around the entrance as if he could somehow have slipped past them without their notice.

“Back up the passage – now!” Barked the tallest, the leader, it seemed. “Look out the door!” He barked to some others. Armor clashed, and growls and curses rang through the cave and Bilbo was terrified.

But he had to get out the door. He snuck then behind a barrel, to avoid being bumped into and discovered and thought frantically of a plan.

(He had been doing too much of this as of late, and he feared that he was going to become unduly skilled at it.)

Suddenly he saw an opening between the scrambling orcs and, trying to remember all of Fíli’s impressive footwork, darted between them as quickly as he was able. He bumped into one, and for a terrible second thought that he was discovered, only for the orc to turn around and run one of its brothers through with a snarl and a curse.

“Stay out of my way, maggot!” It barked and spat on the corpse’s face and Bilbo did not give himself time to gag.

He kept moving, careful and quick and made it to the entrance, the wind on his face foreign and delightful.

“There’s a shadow by the door!” Cried one of the orcs and he was off like a shot before they could muster their arms. Down the rocky slopes he ran, blind with panic and desperate to reach the shadowed embrace of the forest he could feel in the distance.

Something grabbed at him then, and wrenched his arm – his injured arm, his sore arm, Thorin was going to be so upset, oh, dear – and sent him sprawling to the rock, cutting up his skin as he landed.

“What’s it?” Snarled something putrid as it sat on him heavily, knocking the breath from his lungs. He struggled, attempted to swing his sword, but the orc laughed and caught his arm, pushing it down to the ground above his head. “What you strugglin’ for? It’ll hurt more that way – not that I mind! C’mon, lemme see ya.”

It howled in laughter and Bilbo could hardly see for the panic that coursed through him.

He had to get away, he had to get away, had to get back to the Company, he had to get back to Gandalf, he had to see Thorin –

He closed his eyes and called up his magic and the orc shouted and gurgled, and the weight was gone from his chest.

He rolled over, scrambling to his feet and did not look at the thorny vines that still slithered and dripped with blood. A mangled hand dropped a crude sword and was enveloped by leaves, and Bilbo ran.

He ran and ran and ran and stopped only when he found himself sheltered by pine and bush, and only then to fall over and retch onto the ground.

That hadn’t happened, it hadn’t, he hadn’t –

Another wave of sickness came over him and he was not surprised to feel tears accompany his violent retching. There was nothing for him to heave up, and the result was worse than he had expected – his muscles seizing painfully around nothing, and forcing up only the burning acid from his stomach.

He knelt there for a moment, staring blankly into his own filth, before he forced himself roughly to his feet. He scrubbed his face clean with his already disgusting coat and clutched his sword firmly.

He had to see his Company.

No time for all these dramatics, none at all, he had business. He was a Baggins of Bag End and a Baggins always finished their business.

(He didn’t even know what that meant anymore, if he could even call himself that, if he had any right, no Baggins had ever done something so wretched, so awful, no Baggins had ever been so _wrong._)

He stumbled down the hill, through the trees, blindly looking for beards and belt buckles.

He had escaped with his life, but he did not know where he was. He had lost his pack, his food, his buttons, his blanket, his friends. He stumbled onward, not thinking much of anything at all, till the sun began to sink westwards – behind the mountains.

Somehow it seemed he had managed to cross the Misty Mountains, after all, and nearly on his own, too.

(The thought brought him no comfort, only some wry amusement that caused no more than a huff to escape him.)

Eventually, after what felt like both a minute and a millennium, he heard voices, raised and angry and familiar. He hurried his steps, anxious beyond his own reasoning to see them, to hear them, to not be alone.

“- happened exactly? Tell me!” Gandalf cried, angrier than Bilbo could ever remember him sounding.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Thorin replied, voice steady and measured, though something dark crept beneath it that Bilbo could not name, “Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it! He’s thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door.”

And Bilbo was almost prepared for the pain that shot through him at that accusation, almost ready for it. He had known that Thorin thought these things about him, had accepted it and even tried to relieve the dwarf of his burden by leaving, though it tore at something in him to do it. No amount of whispered revelations in the dark changed things, no amount of almost moments, and near taken chances could remedy the sheer scale of his uselessness.

(But his heart was already so tender, and those words cut deeper than he had expected them too, even if they were true. It was the bitterness and venom behind the words that hurt him most, he thought.)

“We will not be seeing our Hobbit again. He is long gone.” Thorin sounded so certain, though Bilbo did not hear the relief that he had expected in his voice.

And still, he found himself growing angry, where he ought to be dejected and shamed.

If Thorin thought him useless and simple, that was fair, but he had no right to go around assuming him a coward. Not now, not after everything he had done.

(He wished he hadn’t, oh, Lady forgive him, he wished he hadn’t, but he had to, had to come back, couldn’t die there, couldn’t let himself disappear and let them go on thinking him so faithless, let them think that he didn’t care, that he didn’t -)

“No,” he said before he thought better of it, slipping off his ring and stepping out into the clearing, “he isn’t.”

“Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf cried, wrinkled old face sagging in delighted relief, and Bilbo was surprised at the shouts of joy that escaped the bedraggled dwarrow around them, “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life!”

Bilbo did his best to smile at his old friend and moved to stumble down the hill, though he made sure not to lose his footing, instinctually hyper aware of his surroundings, as if at any moment an attack could spring from the shadows.

He passed Balin on his way, the old dwarf smiling at him with watery eyes, though he was sure that there was some confusion and suspicion behind his relief. Bilbo knew that Balin had been their designated look-out man, having the best eyesight and most reliable character of all the dwarrow, and he felt some discomfort at the thought that his sneaking may have raised question in the clever old dwarf.

(It was Kíli that had the best sight, actually, but after the Troll incident everyone agreed that it would be best not to risk his inattention costing them their lives.)

He patted him on the shoulder, some attempt at reassurance that he himself did not feel, not until Balin’s hand came up to squeeze his arm in return. The warm touch settled something in him that he had not noticed was disturbed, and he had to swallow thickly to stop himself from doing something embarrassing.

“Bilbo!” Kíli shouted, stepping forward and smiling brightly, though panic still edged his eyes, “We’d given you up!”

“How on Arda did you get past the goblins?” His brother followed, more confused but no less pleased to see Bilbo.

(And Bilbo had known, logically, that the boys would have worried for him, but it was quite another thing to see it so clearly displayed, wasn’t it?)

“Ah, yes, well,” he murmured, caught and unsure how to answer. Somehow, he did not think it wise to tell them of his ring, not with the suspicious way that dwarrow regarded all things foreign and especially of foreign magic.

(He tried not to let the thought unsettle him, but he could not help but wonder what they would think of his own foreign magic. They had only just begun to grow used to his general otherness, after all.)

More than that, he did not want to think on the creature he had stolen it from. Did not want to speak of it, lest his empty stomach roil once more. The acid still burned at his throat and he did not fancy making such a show now, in front of the others.

(Best not to speak of ill things, he thought, a little frantically.)

“Yes, how indeed?” Gandalf asked, and his gaze was heavy and searching as it pressed down on him. The Old Man had always been kind but his mischief and business both had an edge of something cold in the secrecy of it. He did not like it when others kept secrets from him, and he always knew when they did, though he kept many to himself.

Bilbo laughed nervously, setting his hands on his hips and tugging at his braces in turns, desperate to avoid drawing attention to his pockets as he usually would have done.

Gandalf took pity on him once his silence had stretched too long for comfort, and smiled before he spoke, although uneasily, “Well, what does it matter, hm? He’s back!”

“It matters!” Barked Thorin, before any relief could bubble up in Bilbo’s heart. His eyes were determined as ever when they turned to Bilbo, though there was something deeply questioning in them that Bilbo would be hard pressed to deny. “Why did you come back?”

And why did he? Why was it that when he was lost in the dark and facing a horror the likes of which he’d never imagined, he could think only of returning to these dwarrow? Why was it that when he was trapped under the crushing weight of certain death, he had thought only of finding his Company, of seeing this one dwarf? Why hadn’t he given up? Bilbo would like to think that most Hobbits would have defended themselves as well as he, but he knew that most would not have run so willingly back into the arms of those who would have so easily abandoned them.

But then maybe it was not protection that drew him back to them. He thought then that maybe it was this burning desire in him to stand his ground, to make a point. The thing in him that saw the wrong done to these folks and railed against it. The thought that these mighty people were brought so low and that he could help them take back their home, even in some small way.

Baggins indignation and Took determination, and something proud and fierce and his alone.

His need to prove his worth, to take this first and likely only chance to define who he was outside of tradition’s shadow. This chance to show these dwarrow, to show Thorin, what exactly Bilbo Baggins was made of.

And the Bilbo that he wanted to be was no coward.

“Look,” he said, voice rougher than he had expected it to be, dragged down by the fear and horror of the things he had seen and done, fed up with Thorin’s dismissal time and again, “I know you doubt me; I know you always have.”

He did not blame him, how could he? Someone like Thorin, weighed with a crown and tragedy and so very much loss, and yet still determined to move forward, to press on, to whatever end – how could someone like that see anything in someone like Bilbo? A Hobbit who was afraid and lost and still reeling with the thought of being his own person. A Hobbit who had never had to spare a thought as to his own place, his own character, his own beliefs, who was only now fulling realizing the kind of Hobbit that he wanted to be.

“And you’re right, I often think of Bag End.” He quirked a little smile then, shrugging his shoulders, unapologetic, and honest. “I miss my books. And my armchair, my garden. See, that’s where I belong.” He said, pointing vaguely West, never once taking his eyes off of Thorin’s though the look of surprise on the dwarf’s face made it difficult for him to do so. “That’s home. And that’s why I came back, because-” he paused, looked away, at the rest of the dwarrow, ragged and battered and unshaken, as though they were used to such things, as though this were an everyday misadventure- “you don’t have one. A home.”

Thorin’s face shuttered then, as if the words had hurt him, and Bilbo felt bad for it, though he would not take them back. It was terribly important to him then that Thorin understood – understood the why, and the reasons, understood Bilbo, finally, after all these very long months of miscommunication and ill-will.

“It was taken from you,” he said, surprised at the force with which he felt that loss, felt it for them though he could not know it himself and hoped he never would, “But I will help you take it back if I can.”

Because that was right, because that was the decent thing to do. Because that was kind, and above all Bilbo thought that these dwarrow deserved kindness.

Thorin looked away then, for a moment, swallowed and looked to the ground, though his eyes quickly came back up to meet Bilbo’s, never one to show weakness, though the newfound openness in them belied his efforts.

Bilbo himself was not so proud, and had to look away, though the way that the other dwarrow were staring at him – all watery eyes and newfound wonder – was nearly as bad. He swallowed nervously, hands in his pockets, and shuffled his feet, unsure what to do or say now that his courage had run out.

He turned back to Thorin then, some small part of him reveling in the vulnerability of his expression, though he did not expect it to last long. He smiled as well as he was able, even as the dwarf began to say something.

Howling interrupted him, breaking over the rocky hills with deadly foreboding. At once the Company was on their feet, weapons in hand and soft looks washed away in the wake of fear and anger.

Thorin hefted his sword once more, growling with ill-placed annoyance. “Out of the frying pan-”

“-And into the fire!” Gandalf finished for him, “Run, run!”

They began to run down the hills, dodging rocks and sparse trees, the setting sun fading at their backs even as the prowling wargs grew louder with each heaved breath. Bilbo had not thought that his legs were capable of any more feats of endurance today, but it seemed that impending death had a way of pushing him to new heights.

He ran and ran and felt then a heavy movement at his back. He ducked quickly behind a stray boulder, paling as he saw a great hound leap over the place where he had just been, landing at once and turning to face him, rotting maw snapping and snarling. It stared at him for a moment, menacing and terrible, before it charged. Scrambling, he drew his sword, holding it blindly before him, no time to think or execute any half-thought maneuver. The warg came at him, snarling and awful, and did not stop for the elvish steel that pierced its skull, not until it had pushed him back a few paces, and the blood had run out from its wound.

It fell to the ground, motionless and sudden, and Bilbo could not help but stare at it in surprised horror.

(Two, now, and how many more to go? How many, Yavanna forgive him, until he became no better than whoever that thing in the mountain had been so long long ago?)

He was wrenched from his stupor by the battle cries of his dwarrow, dispatching several more wargs while he had been unaware and carrying on down the hills, toward a copse of scraggly pine trees in the distance.

It was with great dismay that the whispering pines spoke to him of a terrible cliff and no escape to meet them through their boughs.

Gandalf reached the cliff first and, looking down the sheer drop of the mountain, grimaced, and turned to the nearest dwarf, barking, “Up into the trees, all of you! Come on, climb!”

The dwarrow obeyed, leaping impressive heights onto low branches, and hauling each other up one after the other. They were inexperienced climbers, he could see, unsure if their perches could bear their weight, and more used to the handholds of rock than of bark.

“Bilbo,” called the wizard, forcing him to focus, though he had not realized his attention had wandered, “climb!”

Heeding the call, Bilbo bent down to retrieve his sword and make toward the nearest tree, only to be pulled back by the unrelenting grip of steel to flesh. The blade made an awful wet sound when he moved it, black blood and fleshy bits seeping from around its edges.

“They’re coming!” Thorin yelled, and belatedly Bilbo realized that the warning was meant for him.

Wargs growled fiercely at his back, and desperately he pulled at his blade, though it did him no good. He turned a quarter, then, to see Orcs, dark and armored and fierce grinning down at him from the hill. Frantic and running short on ideas, he braced his foot on the fallen warg’s skull and threw himself bodily back, pulling his sword free with a wet sound.

He turned at once, not giving himself even a moment to be satisfied or disgusted, whichever came first. The orc pack was still bearing down on him, and he turned to clamber up the nearest pine as quickly as he was able.

Wargs poured over the rise, circling their trees and snapping at their feet, though they could not get high enough to cause anything but fear. The mounted beasts waited on the hill, their sneering masters watching the spectacle with some amusement.

As one the snarling wargs subsided, slinking back and turning to face their orcish masters, expectant and ominous. The Chief of the Orcs then stepped forward, pale and hulking and scarred, his beast dwarfing its pack and his sneer cruel and delighted as he watched the scrabbling dwarrrow in their perches. Bilbo did not doubt that they made quite a sight there; dwarrow divorced from the earth and clinging to sticks in the wind.

Thorin made a pained a sound from somewhere above Bilbo though he spoke before Bilbo could get a proper look at his expression.

“Azog?” The dwarf ground out, as though the idea was not to be borne, but the orc sneered in recognition and Bilbo knew that it was true.

The Orc leaned over his beast, speaking to it in some grating foul speech that Bilbo did not know, though his eyes were clear and cruel and ever trained on the dwarf King. He said something then that caused a ripple of malicious joy to spread through the pack. He continued, leaning back arrogantly on his beast’s back, tilting his head to the side as though in thought as he spoke clearly to Thorin.

Whatever he said must have been damning, for the look on Thorin’s face was stricken with pain and grief, and his grip on his branch loosened precariously. Bilbo saw his mouth move to form words of horror though they were lost to the awful noise of the wargs before they ever reached even his keen ears.

The orc barked out a snarling laugh, leaning back to say something to his lieutenant before barking something to the rest, waving his ill-wrought mace toward the tree stand and sending death forward.

The wargs swarmed forward, crashing against the trunks of the trees, leaping as high as they could, shattering sturdy boughs in their jaws.

Bilbo screamed in time with the dwarrow and scrambled to keep his grip on the shuddering pine even as he tried to cover his ears. He was desperate to block out the groaning cry of the trees – angry and terrified as he, though they had done nothing to draw such an assault. Ancient confusion, and the wailing of those older and wiser and sturdier than he. He had never heard such a terror from the wood before; if ever an axe was taken to lumber in the Shire it was done with care and grief and the understanding of a life well lived and well loved.

He had not known that the trees could scream with terror, had not known they too would cry out for help.

The trees continued to howl, and the hounds below them, and the dwarrow cursed and cried out and all the while orcs jeered and laughed and barked foul things in their accursed tongue. All at once the tree in which Bilbo had taken shelter shuddered and groaned one final, awful, wail, as its very roots were torn from the earth, crying in its death throes for the damage it would do to its brothers as it fell. The pine crashed into the one behind it, and Bilbo gasped as he watched dwarrow make the precarious leap from one dying tree to another, landing with grasping arms and trembling hands.

He closed his eyes and made a half-formed prayer to the Lady – for himself, his dwarrow, and their poor hosts – and leapt.

He landed safely, though he had no time to gasp his relief as the same shuddering, soul rending scream sounded with the cracking of wood and earth. This pine too fell, and again the dwarrow made the leap – though twice as many as before and Bilbo could not help his sob as the tree groaned under their weight and the warg’s assault.

Again, he leapt after the others, grieving and guilty, though he saw no other choice. He landed bodily on a firm bough, and curled around it, pulling himself up expertly with the knowledge of a lifetime of tree climbing and forest wandering adventures.

He had almost regained his stability when he felt something pull him fiercely down. With a cry he clutched at the tree, bark cutting into his hands where he dug his fingers in desperately. Looking down he was met with the foaming mouth of a warg, growling, and tugging fiercely at his coat tail. A scream formed in his throat though he had no time to voice it – from the corner of his vision something large came barreling into the warg, knocking it off of him with a yelp and a whimper. Blinking, Bilbo stared at the sudden appearance of a pine branch, hefty and larger around than him, clearly still attached to the tree as it rose to support his feet.

He stumbled as it took his weight, gentle but insistent, even as it shook with the force of the bodies that slammed into it. He released his death grip, watching in wonder as the branch steadied beneath his feet, even as his blood dripped onto it and its moans rang in his ears.

“Jump!” Cried someone, anyone, he did not know who, and he turned to do so, something thick and pained bubbling in his chest as he did. He jumped with the dwarrow, and again, and again, as the trees fell like dominoes, innocent and wailing.

At last the whole of the Company clutched to one beaten pine as it clung to the very edge of the cliff. The orc’s cheers were deafening but Bilbo could hardly hear them for the sound of his own breathing, harsh and uneven and rushing in his ears. He heard mumbling, and distantly, he realized that he had been babbling something, under his breath.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh, forgive us -” He cut himself off with a gasp, closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe evenly, counting each breath and forcing it into his seizing lungs even as it ached.

All at once something flashed past his vision, bright and red and the brush below erupted in flames. Wargs yelped and howled as their fur caught fire, leaping away from the tree, and the mad Wizard hurling flaming pinecones from its branches.

Bilbo turned to gape at the old man, a laugh escaping him as Gandalf hurried to light some more ablaze with his staff, tossing them to Fíli with a grin.

Of course, Gandalf had made a special study of bewitchments with fire and light – of flash bangs and whiz-poppers and blinding ethereal entrances.

(Of a wall of flame to ward off white wolves and foul things and to warm frozen Hobbit limbs. Of instant cooking fires and the warming of smials even when firewood had burnt out months ago and the tables had been shattered and used up too.)

Fíli chucked one down onto a warg’s head with all the fierceness and surety of one of his throwing knives. The pinecone shattered on impact, sticky little seeds lodging in the beast’s fur, lighting it aflame no matter how it writhed and rolled in the dirt. With a cheer, the dwarrow caught on, grabbing at their own pinecones and flints, judiciously applying flame and destruction below.

It was high summer, now, and Bilbo could feel that this side of the Mountains had not benefited from that awful storm or any before it and had been dry for some time before they arrived. Yellowing bracken, fallen branches, deep-piled pine needles and the trunks of felled trees aided their attack, catching flame like nothing else, as the wargs howled and thrashed, spreading the flames on their backs before their pack drove them off with snarling bites.

The pale orc snarled in fury, even as their tree groaned and tipped, ending their short-lived excitement. With an awful cracking, the tree tipped back, back, back, until it hung onto the cliff by a prayer – or as it were, by magic.

Bilbo had closed his eyes fiercely at the shifting of his balance, clutching to his branch, and pleading desperately with the tree to hold on, if only for a second longer. He could feel the effort of those clinging roots as if it tore at his own body, and he could hardly bare the frightened cries of the Company on top of it all.

(He had never used his Green Touch so desperately, never had his gifts been all that held him and his from the edge of darkness, and he felt the strain pull at something deep and nameless within him.)

Faintly Bilbo heard Ori cry out, felt the jerk as he caught himself on his brother’s ankle, heard Dori cry out for Gandalf to help them. And though he should be focused on that unraveling horror, what frightened him most was the determined fury with which Thorin stared down the Pale Orc.

He watched as Thorin pulled himself up from where he hung, somehow finding his footing on the precarious edge of the fallen pine, sword drawn and fire bright. Slowly, the King walked forth, intent on his enemy, though there was no rush in his steps.

The Pale Orc smiled, and sat back upon his beast, arms spread wide and open – inviting the dwarf to his side, though his teeth gleamed sharp and ferocious in the flames.

Snarling, Thorin raised Orcrist, and charged at the beast, Oaken Shield held at guard.

Azog reared forward, his warg leapt at the King, and Bilbo cried out in fear.

Thorin swung his blade, but the warg was unrelenting, swiping at his chest with one massive, clawed paw. He slammed into the ground with a force that brought Bilbo to scramble up onto the tree trunk, heart in his throat. Thorin climbed onto his feet, though not before the beast wheeled around to face him, the strong arm of its rider rearing back to deliver a crushing blow, throwing the dwarf onto his back with a cry.

Screaming filled the air but all that Bilbo could hear was the crackling of the fire and the roar of the Pale Orc. The white warg stepped closer to Thorin and Bilbo found himself on his feet, stumbling on the rough bark of the tree without thought. The warg opened its maw and clamped down around the dwarf with a sickening snap, a pained shout escaping him at the force. Still, Thorin struggled, beating the beast with the pommel of his sword, forcing it to roar and fling him away.

He landed with a sickening crack, his sword falling from his hand as his head lolled to the side. Bilbo shouted something, though he did not know what.

Azog barked at one of his orcs, gaze almost disappointed as he sneered down at Thorin’s prone form. The orc nodded and leapt from its warg, blade drawing as it approached the King. The Orc loomed over him, as Thorin foggily groped around for his sword, too weak to stand or roll out of the way.

The orcish blade raised into the air and before Bilbo knew what he was doing, his sword was drawn, fierce as blue flame, as he threw himself into the thing, knocking it down, and blessedly away from Thorin.

They hit the ground with a snarl, limbs tangled, and blades clanking against armor and each other – uncoordinated and confused. Still, Bilbo was smaller by more than half, and the orc soon had him pushed onto his back, blade at his throat as it snarled at him, growling though he could almost swear that he could hear it laughing, telling him to let it see him, to stop struggling –

He shouted, and raised his blade, forcing it up and through the orc’s chest, crying out at the startled sound it made, at the gasp that whistled and never filled its lungs. The orc moved its arm, jerkily to stab at him, and he rolled them both over, wrenching his sword out – black, black blood, and fleshy bits, and that awful wet sound – and bringing it down again, and again, and again, until it stopped moving all together – until the gurgling and the whistling stopped and glassy yellow eyes stare at him blankly.

Jerking back, he forced himself to his feet before he could be sick – there was no time for it. He stumbled around, until he stood in front of Thorin – Thorin who had closed his eyes and would not move. He held his sword against the orcs, swinging wildly in warning, hoping that they would back away rather than test his luck – he did not doubt that it would fail him.

(Luck was no substitute for skill. Taking out an Orc or two by surprise was a feat, he would admit, but he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against one that knew he was armed and intent.)

Azog stared him down from astride his warg and slowly a curious smile cracked his pale lips. He urged his warg closer as Bilbo bared his teeth, making a show of flashing his blade’s glowing edge. Snarling, the orc backed away, never breaking his stare as he turned his head to bark out an order to his pack.

The orcs smiled and jeered and as once they made toward Bilbo, grinning maliciously as he paled in fear.

He took only a few startled steps back, hand outstretched toward the fallen dwarf behind him, before thundering shouts filled the air and dwarvish steel cut through rotting hide.

Taking the chance, Bilbo shouted and lunged forward, slashing at the nearest warg’s snout. Before he could regain his footing, though, he saw a flash of dirty white fur and a blow knocked him off of his feet and back to the ground.

Groaning, he tried to stand but only managed to shrug himself up to lean on his elbows before he caught sight of the white warg and its terrible master prowling toward him. The orc smiled in arrogant delight as it closed in on him, but Bilbo could hardly pay it any mind, so focused was he on the razor teeth of the warg.

The sound of orcish terror tore the beast’s attention, and that of its master, and Bilbo choked on the sudden rush of breath back into his lungs.

A screech – unmistakably that of an eagle, but too loud, too deep, and then wind like a hurricane beat down upon them, stoking the flames higher and higher as warg and orc alike were carted off into the night.

Huge winged shapes, familiar and otherworldly, swept down, talons piercing orcish armor and sending the pack running in terror. Azog barked orders but none would listen, so lost in their fright.

Bilbo turned just in time to see one of the birds swoop down to grasp at Thorin – sword gripped precariously in his hand and shield battered, straps rent from his arm as it slid off. He shouted at the thing to leave him be and attempted to scramble to his feet – though what he would do against a beast like that he didn’t know.

He was halted by a shout from Azog, the great Orc growling and snapping something at him as he lumbered forward on his beast, obviously intent on killing Bilbo even if his folk had fled.

Just then, a great screech rent the air, and the Pale Orc forced his warg to leap aside as an eagle swooped over his head. Missing the Orc, it instead made for the prone Hobbit.

Bilbo felt a rush of air and the unsettling feeling in his stomach of gravity shifting around him and all at once he was in open air. He gasped and clutched to his own sword before the eagle tossed him clean off of the cliff. Screaming, he fell with a sob onto the back of another great bird.

The eagle banked to the side, and Bilbo cried out, digging his fingers into its feathers and burying his face.

(At the best of times, heights made him a bit giddy – and these certainly were not the best of times. He used to get dizzy looking over the edge of even little cliffs – and he never liked ladders, and though he had climbed trees aplenty he’d never dared to go as high as his older Took cousins.)

He gasped and shuddered and only looked up when he heard one of the Princes cry out for Thorin.

Looking around as best as he was able, he saw the Company, astride the backs of giant eagles, or clenched tight in their claws. They soared high in the air – so high in fact that some of his fear melted out of him. The land looked so different from up here that he almost couldn’t comprehend what it was he was looking at. The pale peaks of mountains were coming nearer, moonlit spikes of rock jutting from inky shadow. Clouds floated around them, light and ethereal this low, and Bilbo felt tears spring from his eyes at the surrealness of it.

(Or perhaps that was the biting wind – they were moving very fast, and the air was cold and thin.)

He saw then, through his watery peering, Thorin clutched in an eagle’s talons, his face pale and bloodied, slack and unresponsive in the cold rising sun. Tears rose in his eyes and he was certain of the reason this time.

He buried his face in the feathers of the eagle and was grateful for the blur and noise of flight if only so that no one would see him weeping.

He did not know how long they flew – only that somewhere along the line darkness crept into his vision and he fell away from consciousness.

* * *

[i] “Though slow to quarrel, and for sport killing nothing that lived, they were doughty at bay, and at need could still handle arms. They shot well with the bow, for they were keen-eyed and sure at the mark. Not only with bows and arrows. If any Hobbit stooped for a stone, it was well to get quickly under cover, as all trespassing beasts knew very well.” – The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien, Prologue: Concerning Hobbits

[ii] "The Woodmen said that there was some new terror abroad, a ghost that drank blood. It climbed trees to find nests; it crept into holes to find the young; it slipped through windows to find cradles." - Gandalf to Frodo about Gollum; The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R Tolkien, The Shadow of the Past 

My dude ate babies, I am so sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can not stress enough that I did not intend for this chapter to be so dark but the source material did not help my case. I based the Riddles scene heavily on the book and JRRT was not messing around.  
Gollum is horrifying and its worse because he used to be an actual functioning person. I don't know if Bilbo realized it in Cannon but, well, even just looking at Gollum as he is now you can spot the signs of what he used to be.  
Bilbo is straight up not having a good time!  
Also, enter the Ring. Stay tuned for slowly creeping horror and Bilbo trying frantically to Not Think About It.  
If you have any questions or comments please feel free to let me know! I appreciate you all so much - stay safe and stay healthy!


	9. Out of the Frying-Pan and Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birds, beasts, and feelings.

Thorin did not often let himself dwell on the things that haunted him. His terrors were relentless and complete enough at night that he felt it necessary to banish them from his mind in the daylight. Still, time and distraction were never complete enough to quell the uneasiness he felt at the sight of flame, the mistrust he held for elves, the way that lizards and pale things made his stomach clench.

Smoke choked his lungs. Like so many of his nightmares, his vision was wreathed in flame. Dwarrow cried out behind him and evil snarled before him; familiar and unwanted. Fire crackled as the air bled red and Thorin could see nothing but that familiar terror that had so thoroughly felled an already ruined line.

He was as pallid and tall as his father had been, and just as hulking, if not as scarred. The Defiler had been marred a thousand times over, by war and whatever vile reasons Orcs had for scarring their own flesh. His son was not so haphazardly marked, though he bore his own battle scars and the smooth deliberate lines of decoration both. Thorin might have remembered those eyes, beneath an orcish helm, screaming and cursing on a battlefield decades ago, but it could have just as likely been the memory of any number of goblins he saw that day.

But he remembered that cruel smile. Begotten from his bastard father as he was it served him well to inherit such a strikingly vile feature from him. If the smile was not proof enough, the intelligence behind his sunken eyes set him apart from his kin.

No lowly orc was as keen as that. Only Azog’s line had ever come close.

_“Do you smell it?”_ The beast crooned to his warg, Black Speech vile and mocking on his tongue. _“The scent of fear?”_ He looked at him then, canines bared in cruel pleasure as he spoke. _“I remember your Father reeked of it, Thorin Son of Thrain.”_

Thorin had not believed his father to be dead, no matter the insistence of others. No matter how Balin and Dwalin and even Dís had tried to reason with him. A hundred years and no sign nor word from him, he did not blame them for thinking him dead. But he had known in his heart that it was not so.

“It cannot be,” he found himself saying, voice choked with horror and grief.

He had looked for him, chasing rumors between traveling employment when he could. He had always hoped he had gotten lost in his journeys or was otherwise too ashamed to come home – victim to Durin pride as his son and his father before him often were and had been.

He had not allowed himself to think he had been captured by goblins. The thought had been too awful to suffer.

But now it seemed it was so. And not any lowly orc at that – but the spawn of Thrór’s own murderer. The bane of his line. And now it seemed that the blood feud would carry on for another generation yet.

If Thorin had any say this generation would be the last.

_“That one is mine – kill the others!”_ Azog’s spawn ordered, and the onslaught of wargs cracked wood and tore at the earth. Trees fell, one after the other, until all of the Company were trapped in one teetering perch – lemmings driven off of a cliff.

Ori cried out as his grip slipped, and he caught himself on his elder brother’s boot, only to then cause them both to fall. They would have met their end there, save for the swift thinking of Tharkûn. The wizard struggled to hold them up with only his staff and Thorin could see that no great escape would come from him - not this time.

Choking on anger and fear, he turned to his enemy, the awful beast sneering in delight at their impending doom.

Thorin knew that there was no way out of this trap; the cliff was too steep to climb, and the tree would not hold much longer. He knew that they were going to die here. They could not fight their way through so many enemies on their own, meagerly armed and exhausted as they were. Neither could they make a retreat but for the sheer suicidal drop off of the cliff over which they hung.

He knew that he would never see Erebor again. That he would never return to Dís or reunite her with her sons. He knew that his line would end here, and the most loyal dwarrow he had ever met with them.

That Master Baggins would not make it back to his books and his armchair and his rolling green hills.

But he knew then if they were to die, he would not allow it to come for them without a fight.

He would not die like this – clinging desperate and screaming to the edge, crying into the night with no blade in hand. If he were to die, if all of his ambition were to fail, he would end with a roar and blood on his blade.

He would die a proper Son of Durin – crown or no.

He hauled himself to his feet, steady where he stood on the trunk of the fallen pine. His breathing was slow and loud in his ears, tempered and sure as he stared down this new Defiler. The Orc grinned and spread his arms wide, inviting an attack and unconcerned for the foolish arrogance of such a thing.

Snarling at the insult, Thorin made his charge, shield at guard and Orcrist at the ready.

Azog grinned something foul and leaned forward on his beast, bellowing a war cry as he urged it forward.

The warg came down on him from above, and though his sword made contact the cut was too shallow to stop its attack. Snarling, it landed a blow to his chest, and Thorin felt the air rush from his lungs, the scales of his brigandine creaking beneath the force.

He found himself on his back, crying out at the impact, and struggling to focus through the shock of it. He gasped for air, pushing himself to stand as he leaned on his reinforced oaken shield. His gaze would not focus no matter how he tried to force it to, and all he could clearly make out was the glint of fire on crude steel bracings.

Tearing his blurred gaze up, he found his enemy had turned to face him and, snarling, was making to charge once more. He lurched back and braced himself as well as he could as the goblin swung his crude mace, though his movements were frustratingly slow, and he could not bring up his guard in time. The mace crashed into him just below the chin, sending his head snapping back painfully, as the taste of blood surged to choke his throat.

He slammed into the ground and, though he could not be sure, he thought that he could hear his name being called in the distance.

Azog roared, even as Thorin forced himself to his knees once more, before the goblin’s beast took hold of him in its jaws. He could not help the scream that escaped him as the warg’s teeth slipped between his light armor and sank into flesh. The beast clenched down around him, and he heard the cracking of bone and oak both before he drew enough strength to raise his sword.

He slammed his pommel into the beast’s snarling face and shouted when it roared, throwing him aside. He landed once more, though this time the stone was unforgiving as he crashed into it. He found it difficult to breath, though he could not tell if it was from the impact or his no doubt broken ribs. He lost track of all thought for a moment, intent only on forcing air through his lungs, before the cold feel of metal at his throat forced him back to attention.

An orc loomed above him, malicious and intent, and Thorin realized vaguely that it was not Azog. The Pale Orc would not deign to remove Thorin’s head on his own, but rather would have it brought to him as a trophy – just as his father’s had been laid at Thorin’s feet more than a century ago.

Snarling, he reached for his sword, though his fingers were numb and clumsy and would not obey him as they should. The goblin raised its blade, intent on delivering the killing blow and Thorin refused to close his eyes.

He would face his end struggling or not at all.

He need not have bothered. Something plowed into the orc, taking it clean off of its feet with a familiar voice raised in an unfamiliar cry of aggression. Washed out red blurred past his vision and copper glowed gold in the firelight. He gasped out a breath at the sudden gift of life, though he could not focus on the dizzying mess of movement to his left, try as he might.

An Orc roared in rage, and a weak gasp of terror made his head spin. Steel flashed a glowing blue and someone important cried out in fear.

Thorin’s breath would not come fast enough and he could no longer force himself to remain conscious.

When next he came to awareness, it was to a splitting headache and the worst bout of nausea he’d ever faced sober. Slowly, sounds came into focus and among them he could hear the worried rumble of his Company. He could not make any of it out clearly but for the sound of Óin muttering some medical jargon to the wizard looming over him.

He made an attempt at opening his eyes, though was forced to close them at once as the dawning sun caused his skull to flare in agony. He groaned at the pain and heard then a gasp – higher in pitch than any dwarrow and kinder to his battered skull.

It was then that he remembered – certain death, the glint of orcish steel, and the shock of his rescue. Muted red, and burnished copper; the flash of a glowing elvish blade and the cry of a melodic voice raised in terror.

“The Halfling,” he ground out, trying to sit up, though a flare of sharp agony through his chest brought him up short. He felt hands on him, trying to force him back down, though he fought against their grip with all the meager strength he could summon.

If the Hobbit truly had saved him – if Master Baggins had thrown himself bodily into the fray – tackled an Orc – he did not even know how to use his little elvish dagger, he had never been in a proper fight, why hadn’t they at least given him lessons? He could not have possibly won, not in a fight like that – he was not meant for battle – he –

“It’s all right, Bilbo is here. He’s quite safe,” Tharkûn said, voice gentle and somehow proud.

Thorin felt the words like a blast of cool air after leaving a forge – refreshing and near painful at the same time. He forced himself to his feet, even through the pain – his ribs, he was sure, though hopefully bruised and not fractured. Kíli and Dwalin helped him stand, though he forced them off of him as soon as he was able, despite the dizziness that rushed at him.

Wildly, he looked around for the Hobbit, finding him standing alone, battered and bleeding and looking terribly small. His rust-gold hair was filthy and limp – caked with ash and grit and, Mahal help him, blood. He was pale, the tanned tint to his skin lost to fear and darkness and hardship. Thorin could hardly see whatever remained of his freckles through the grime that smeared his face, thinner than it had been only months ago, he knew.

“You,” he choked out, some terrifying revelation crashing into him the longer he looked into relieved ivy eyes, ringed with shadows and red as they were, “What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed!” He hadn’t had a hope of surviving such a desperate move – even Thorin hadn’t fooled himself into thinking that he would win his duel with Azog. But this uptight, self-important, brave, little thing with the tongue of a viper and the heart of a lion had run in after him anyway. Even after what Thorin had put him through – all the things he had said, all the disregard and insults offered. “Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild – that you had no place amongst us?”

Baggins did not look at him. He kept his eyes averted to the side, his jaw working though his expression remained neutral – the look of someone practiced at being berated, of someone who had trained themselves to give no reaction in the face of harsh words. Thorin knew the look, had worn it himself in his youth; a foolish Prince being trained for the throne. The kind of thing that took years to get right, the kind of thing that Master Baggins never should have had to learn.

Thorin knew that it was not his actions alone to have caused it, but he knew that it was his fault that it was there now.

He stepped closer to reach out and comfort – himself or Master Baggins, he did not know which – though the flash of alarm that crossed the Burglar’s face made him ache. He had earned that. He had, with his biting words, and his accusations, and his mistrust. He had called him worthless, had spurned him the right of camaraderie, had denied him even the trust that he would be able to do what he had been hired for. Thorin had earned his mistrust in turn, he knew, though it hurt him all the same.

And Baggins looked so miserable then, so battered and beaten down, and it was Thorin’s faut, all of it.

“I have never been so wrong in all my life,” he said, reaching out despite himself, so desperate then to make amends, to set things right, that he could not bear to make himself stop. Baggins did not flinch, did not pull away, and that had to count for something – it had to for the way it made something heavy settle in his throat. He clutched at him, pulling the Hobbit to his chest and wrapping him in his arms as tightly as he could without fear of causing him harm.

Bilbo Baggins was soft.

He was soft and warm, and he smelled of pipe smoke and grass after the rain, even still, beneath the musk and dirt of battle. Thorin could not help but to bury his face even subtly into his filthy curls, reveling in the silk soft brush of them against his face.

It was not proper, not at all, but if anyone noticed he would blame it on his near-death delirium.

Faintly, he realized that the others were cheering behind them, though he could not bring himself to dwell on the embarrassment of it, not when Master Baggins’ arms came up, hesitantly, to return his embrace. He felt him sag slightly into Thorin’s chest, a surprised breath escaping him, before he clutched onto his overcoat. To feel him breathing against him so, to know that he was hale and whole, and even still by his side – it was a realization that both relieved and humbled him. To be permitted to embrace him was miracle enough, but to be embraced in return – Thorin could hardly breathe for the joy that crashed through him.

“I am sorry I doubted you,” he said, no doubt grinning foolishly as he pulled away, though even then he could not help but to keep a gentle hold of his arms. Master Baggins stared up at him in startled confusion, and only then did Thorin allow the suddenness of such a display to occur to him. How must it seem to him, such a sudden act of affection in the wake of these long months of rejection? He felt his joy falter in light of the misplaced audacity of it – of liberties taken without right or welcome. He released his hold and stepped back, grin faltering in light of his shame.

“No, no, I would have doubted me, too,” Baggins said, shaking his head ruefully, though something astounded lingered in his gaze, “I – I’m not a hero, or a warrior – not even a burglar, really.” He cracked a sardonic little smile than, something irreverent and uncertain and Thorin’s chest swelled painfully against his battered ribcage. The others laughed at the jest but all Thorin could manage was to smile fondly at him.

Before he could say anything particularly foolish, though, a great blast of air swept over them, and a truly enormous eagle landed before the Company.

It was only then that Thorin took notice of the screeching birds wheeling around them, and the height of the aerie upon which they stood.

They were high, terribly high up, he knew. The air was thin and biting in a way that he remembered from youthful misadventures – Frerin and him scrambling to see who could reach the mountain’s peak first, who would carve their name into the stone at the very top, which of them was braver. He remembered it from the balconies in the King’s chambers – higher than any of the others, impossible to see from any public rampart, and with a vantage that spanned Dale and the Greenwood and followed the River Running to the horizon.

But there was no horizon to see here – only the rolling fog of clouds, dazzling as crystal in the early morning light, breached with spires of rock laden with Eagles and their nests.

“Ah,” cried Gandalf, smile charming and ingratiating as he approached the immense bird before them, “Hail, Gwaihir the Windlord, Lord of the Eagles!”

The creature tilted its head, golden eyes piercing where they took in the Wizard and the Company. Thorin stepped in front of Master Baggins even as the other dwarrow closed ranks around them – though they were not foolish enough to draw weapons against those who had seemingly saved them.

“Hail, Olórin.”[i] Spoke the bird, voice deep and whistling, and the Hobbit gasped in surprise from behind Thorin even as the dwarrow remained unmoved. The ravens of old spoke often and well and those were only mortal birds. Thorin knew little of the Great Eagles of Manwë but that they were as far from simple animals as the Wizard was from mortal man. “And his companions. Why am I unsurprised to have found the racket that caused my curiosity had a meddling wizard at its center?”

“Ah, an unprecedented change of plans, that’s all,” Tharkûn replied, waving away the entire near deadly catastrophe with a huff, “and lucky chance that you were nearby, Old Friend. Many thanks to you and yours. Why, I’m quite sure you’ve saved our merry band quite a bit of trouble.”

The Eagle Lord ruffled his feathers, though whether in irritation or amusement, Thorin could not tell. “So it seems. And where was it you were going, to cause such mischief with the little blights?”

“East,” Gandalf said, tugging at his grey beard and smiling airily though the Eagle seemed to be amused by the answer, rearing up and clicking in its throat.

“And I suppose you’d like to get there, still?” It asked, great sharp beak glinting in the early morning sun, “And with all your little chicks in tow?”

Thorin scowled at the beast in irritation at the slight, though he was in no condition to challenge the Eagle Lord. And truly, the bird was something of a wonder. Feathers the size of a Man, orderly and speckled and glistening. Its talons and beak sharp and bright in the sun, eyes keen and deadly. Had he been in a better circumstance he might have felt some honor at being guest to such fabled creatures of old.

“If you would be so kind,” the wizard agreed, bowing his head slightly to the Lord.

“I owe you a debt, old Grey, and I shall see it repaid this day,” the bird squinted its bright eyes then and puffed its feathers in irritation, “though we’ll not take you anywhere where men live! They would shoot at us with great bows of yew, for they would think we were after their sheep. And at other times they would be right! No, we are glad to cheat goblins out of their sport, and glad to repay our debt to you, but I will not risk our lives for Dwarves in the southward plains.”

“Nor would I ask you, too,” Tharkûn soothed, even as the great bird huffed and bobbed its head in irritation, “Take us where and as far as you will. We are deeply obliged to you, but in the meantime, we are famished with hunger.”

The eagle clicked at him and shook its great head before turning and diving from the aerie, its screech echoing back to them as it presumably gave orders to its own. In no time at all, eagles were swooping low and dropping dry boughs for a fire and not long after they began to drop rabbits and other small game, one by one. They seemed to make a game of it among themselves, each coming back with larger prey or multiple at once in order to out show their comrades. The game came to a head when a young eagle dropped a limp sheep almost directly on Dwalin’s head, sending the circling birds into shrieking delight when he violently shouted curses at them.

It was clear that the Lord and Wizard both intended them to stay as guests of the aerie for a time, and Thorin was grateful for the respite. His head throbbed with flashing pain and his breath did not come easily - to say nothing of the painful pull of torn flesh he could feel shifting beneath his leathers. He was sure that he was not the only one feeling all the worse for their recent exploits.

Still it was difficult to relax here, so high above the earth. The stone beneath his feet was a precious comfort and yet it reverberated incessantly with warnings of the edge, of its divorce from the earth from which it sprouted, of the many who had been dashed upon the sides of this same stone. Great Eagles wheeled overhead, and their glistening wings detracted nothing from the sharpness of their talons.

With no other choice, the Company took to making as best a camp as they could, up in an aerie with no shelter from the biting wind and chill of early morning. Thorin had made to join them, or at the least supervise what he could, when Óin had stopped him, ordering him to sit at once and allow himself to be checked over.

“It is unnecessary, Óin,” he argued, brushing the old dwarf’s hands off of him to no effect, “there is still work to be done.”

“Jus’ sit right over here and stay still,” Óin rumbled, ignoring his protests as only a half-deaf old Dwarf could, “and you too, Baggins, get yer little arse over here before I drag ya! Don’t think I missed all the tumblin’ about ya did back there!”

Thorin found his complaints stuck in his throat as the Hobbit glanced toward the pair of them, aghast at the harsh order. And he had. Taken a tumble or two, that was. And an Orc or three, much to Thorin’s awed surprise. Scowling and red-faced, he made his way toward them, grumbling something under his breath as the others snickered at his back.

“Daft thing ain’t half as tough as a dwarf, though ya wouldn’t know it the way he jumps into the thick o’ things,” Óin muttered, seemingly to himself, though he cast a truly reproachful glare to Thorin. As if it was his fault that their Burglar was reckless, as if Thorin had ever been able to control what he did. Hesitantly, Master Baggins came to stand beside Thorin, offering him an uncertain smile before he turned to huff at Óin, a disgruntled frown pulling at his face.

“Well? Here I am.” He said, annoyed and embarrassed in equal parts, a pleasing flush painting his round face beneath the grime.

“Aye, though ya did your damndest not ta be,” Óin groused, manhandling the Hobbit to sit on a log – the eagles had made a game of that too, and there were several boughs strewn about too large to be used for such a small campfire, much to both the eagles’ and the Company’s disappointment. Thorin had no doubt they would have endeavored to set the whole aerie ablaze given the chance, but he for one had seen enough of flames.

“Pardon?” Baggins snapped, squinting indignantly at the old dwarf even as he was prodded.

Thorin was privately pleased that Óin had chosen to look over the Hobbit before himself – not least because he was sure the old dwarf had already catalogued his wounds even as he accumulated them and the urgency of each. Óin had been stitching Thorin back together for decades now and there was no one that knew better how much of a beating he could take.

Baggins, however, was an unknown. They knew little of his limits except that they certainly were not anywhere near that of a dwarf. Neither did they know what kind of damage had come to him while he had been separated from them.

No, it was better that he be looked after first, even if the slow trickle of blood down Thorin’s chest made him feel unsteady.

“Ya know damn well ya pulled some mad stunts back there, lad, don’t deny it,” Óin answered before directing him to remove his tattered coat, “not that our leader over here set much of an example. Conspiring to send me to an early grave, ya are! Durin’s beard, would ya sit your royal arse down, already? Your doin’ no good standin’ around bleedin’ everywhere.”

Abruptly, Thorin realized himself, and felt something of a fool – standing there staring at the two of them arguing like a lost child. Silently, he moved to sit next to Master Baggins, biting back a groan at the flare of pain that snapped through him as he moved. The Hobbit glanced at him worriedly, though he himself hissed in pain when Óin brushed his hands over a rough scrape on his forearm.

“Quiet now, yer distractin’ me,” barked the dwarf and Thorin had to choke back a laugh at the affronted look Baggins cast him, “had a tumble and cut yourself on some shale, did ya?”

Master Baggins blinked at him in confusion for a moment before he cut a questioning gaze to Thorin, though he did not wait for an answer, “I suppose so? I did take quite a dreadful fall – when we separated, in Goblin-town.”

Óin’s irritated expression grew darker and he leaned up to grab at Master Baggins’ head, startling the hobbit in the process and causing him to flinch back, though he whimpered and shut his eyes at the action.

“Enough of that, now,” Óin barked, clicking his tongue, and sifting his fingers through matted curls. Thorin shifted uncomfortably where he sat, though he reminded himself that such liberties were a physician’s right and necessary besides. Still, he could not help but track the dwarf’s hands, though he knew, logically, they would not wander. Óin cast him an exasperated look, before he focused once more on his patient with a concerned tilt to his heavy brow. “Ach, there ya are – took a knock to your fool head, di’n ya? Look here, follow my finger wit’ your eyes.”

He pulled his hands back, though Thorin could not be relieved as they came back stained with dried flakes of blood. He watched anxiously as the Hobbit tried to follow the slow movement of the dwarf’s hands only to lose his concentration and blink forcefully to try to focus. Óin frowned before he sighed and murmured to himself even as the Hobbit grew frustrated with his own failure.

“Concussed,” he said, more to himself than to either of them, cursing under his breath when he reached for a pack that he no longer had, “dizzy? Feelin’ sick? Headache? Did ya knock out when it happened or any time after?”

“Uh, well – I – yes?” Baggins stuttered, unsure and growing more concerned as Óin grumbled and patted down his pockets, finding nothing but a tattered little book for his trouble, “Though none of which are new, Master Óin. I’ve felt sick and dizzy and my head has ached for a good while before this mess. Though, I suppose, I did black out during my fall and on our flight here. Not that it would be unusual, I’ve never been much for heights.”

Óin frowned up at him for a moment before, quicker than the Hobbit could stop him, he had reached forward and forcefully pulled up Master Baggins’ stained shirt. He shrieked at the sudden movement and Thorin moved forward to tear away the mad old dwarf’s hands in outrage. He was stopped however by the angry curses that Óin spat, in Khuzdul and Westron both, and the dark look that crossed his grizzled face. Blinking in surprise Thorin turned to see what the trouble was, only to flinch at the sight that he met.

Master Baggins was pale and gaunt, the outline of his ribcage visible beneath his skin, and his stomach distressingly flat where he had been sure it had been a pleasant roundness not so long ago. Red patches of irritated skin riddled his torso, and Thorin could make out a dozen scrapes and bruises before the hobbit forcefully pulled his shirt back down.

“What in the name of the Lady was that for?!” He snapped, green eyes ablaze, though now that Thorin was looking, the dark circles beneath his eyes were more prominent against his pale skin, his eyes red rimmed and dimmer than they had been.

“You fool-headed, daft, little thing!” Óin barked, the force of it causing Baggins to flinch back in surprise as the dwarf carried on in their mother tongue before barking more angered Westron, “Damned mabinbalgûn[ii], dinnae say a cursed thing!”

Master Baggins looked startled at the outburst, looking to Thorin for explanation, but he could not find it in himself to speak. The horror that filled him was too great, the guilt that came with the realization of such a thing choking him and stealing his words.

How long had he been starving? When had he lost so much weight? When had his skin lost its luster, his eyes been cast into such shadow? How had Thorin not noticed – he should have for all the watching he did despite forcing himself not too. The sluggishness that had taken hold of the hobbit was apparent now, the way that he lost focus now where he had always been alert before. The way that he shivered at night even in the dead heat of midsummer and the way that he ate with the elves as if he would never eat again.

Thorin knew what starvation looked like. The slow creeping hopelessness of it, the shadow it painted over hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. The early days of exile had not been kind to his people, and he had seen too many fall to hunger. Too many that should have been kept safe, but always felt its bite first – the old, the sick, the young.

Master Baggins was not so far gone, but it had clearly been a slow and creeping descent.

Thorin had promised himself that he would never again allow one of his own to suffer so, that no one under his care would feel the bite of hunger unless he himself were nearly dead of it.

To see that he had failed so, had been so blind as to have not noticed that the Hobbit was deteriorating before his very eyes, even as he watched, to know that he would have carried on so, silently and without complaint if it weren’t for Óin – to know that he had not only allowed one of his company to suffer so but had allowed –

No, it could not be borne.

“Master Baggins,” he said, and winced at the uneven sound of his distress before he tried again, “Master Baggins, you are starved.”

Baggins blinked up at him in baffled surprise for a moment before he looked away quickly and grimaced before turning back to face him, head bent low in shame.

“Not so loud, if you don’t mind,” he hissed, pointed ears red with embarrassment, where Thorin only felt increasing confusion and guilt, “I’d rather not cause the others a fright.”

“The others?!” Barked Óin before Thorin could voice his own confusion and outrage, “Worry about your health before ya worry about them! What good is piece o’ mind to anyone if it costs ya your life?”

Baggins flushed in anger and shame both and opened his mouth to retort before Thorin cut him off in his desperation, his terrible need to understand what had gone so wrong.

“Why did you not speak up? Have you not been eating?” None of it made any sense. He had been assisting Bombur with their meals, had carefully been doling out their rations, and foraging for odd little nuts and berries every now and again. He was partly in control of their food stores; he was the last of them who should suffer so.

“Of course, I’ve been eating!” He snapped, on edge and defensive, even if Thorin could see the avoidance in his wandering gaze, “What kind of question is that? I’ve had exactly as much as everyone else and I don’t see you fussing over them!”

“’Cause they aren’t bein’ starved!” Óin snarled, looking around for something and grumbling when he did not find it, “You’re not too far along that we can’t fatten ya up again. If we’re ta start replenishin’ whatever meat you’ve lost I’ll need ta know what your folk eat and how much – frequency, quantity, nutrition. Leave nothin’ out, don’t spare the details.”

Master Baggins scowled at them both, chewing anxiously on his bottom lip and twitching his nose in little irritated movements that made Thorin’s chest ache.

“Master Baggins, please,” he said, lower and rawer than he would have liked, though it seemed to cause the Hobbit to concede and that was reward enough.

“It’s just – I’m sorry, it’s just not enough,” he said, as if he had to force the words through his teeth, as if it cost him terribly to say so, and he would not meet either of their eyes, “You dwarrow – you, well, I don’t know how you get by on only three meals a day, it’s just not enough.”

And Thorin could only blink at him blankly then, astounded by the admission. He had thought that he had somehow been avoiding eating, or that they had been feeding him the wrong things, but to have simply not been eating enough –

“And how many meals do Hobbits eat, then?” Óin asked, kinder now than he had been at the onset.

“Seven,” Baggins replied with a snort and a little rueful smile, eyes on his lap where he fussed with the tattered cuff of his sleeve, “maybe more if we’re feeling particularly indulgent that day.”

Seven. Seven meals a day and here they had been lucky if Thorin had allowed them three.

He felt nausea bubble in his gut, and he knew that it was not from his own mild concussion.

“It’s not as if they’re all necessary,” He was quick to assure them, though the words did little to relieve Thorin’s guilt, “when put to it, we can do without, and we have before, you know. It’s just that I’ve had no time to adjust and well, three is less than half of seven and on such a short notice, and without even a proper amount of produce!”

“And you’d not thought it wise to bring up the matter?” Óin said, using a charred stick to scribble in his battered book.

“My word, it’s not as if I’ve been keeping it secret,” Baggins huffed as though offended, though he had yet to meet either of their eyes and Thorin found himself wanting to see the ivy green of them again, even muted as they were, “I’ve spoken of Hobbit meals and their fare and frequency to more than one of you dwarrow on this journey and its not been a cause for concern until now.”

Óin frowned up at him in consideration before he glanced over to the rest of the Company, gathered around the fire and chattering away far enough to not overhear.

“Rocks for brains, the lot of ‘em,” he grumbled, shaking his head and setting about making more notes in his book, “likely thought ya were just rollin’ in yer wealth – not a thought to variation in metabolism or physiology among a one! As if ya were just a queer shaped dwarf!”

Thorin himself spared a furious look toward the Company and the unsubtle glances that they were casting toward them and wondered how such an awful failure could have happened when they so obviously cared for the Hobbit.

Wondered how he himself could have failed so spectacularly.

“Well, what’s done is done, and all we can do is fix ya up best I know how,” Óin said, breaking him from his festering thoughts and stuffing his little book back into the depths of his coats, “startin’ with seein’ the rest o’ the damage. What else ya got lad – I know that ain’t the end o’ it!”

Master Baggins frowned and looked away with a huff, crossing his arms petulantly. Thorin spared a thought to the childishness of the action, though it was not an annoyance as it should have been.

“Aha!” Óin jeered, reaching out and taking up one of Master Baggins’ hands without warning, an indignant squawk escaping the hobbit in turn. “An’ what’s this? Butchered your wee paws ya did!”

“Paws?!” He protested, trying in vain to wrench his battered hand from Óin’s hold, though he winced and sucked in a harsh breath as he did so.

“Stop your whinin’ an’ lemme look at ya.” Óin chided, causing the hobbit to huff in annoyance though he conceded and relaxed his hand in the dwarf’s grip, looking pointedly to the side to demonstrate his displeasure. “Had more co’peration from pebbles,” the healer huffed beneath his breath as he prodded at long fingers, scraped and bloodied, and riddled with splinters.

Thorin watched with rapt attention, taking in the jagged cuts and scrapes, slowly oozing blood. The dirt ground into the lines and whorls of skin, the sharp, filthy splinters embedded in uncalloused flesh. Battered hands, small hands, long fingered and nimble. Filthy and bloody where they once had been immaculate, unworried, finely lined with use in soil and flour and paper. Chipped nails and flaking grime and blood that was red and black and everything in between.

“Could try to dig some o’ the bigger ones out with a knife,” Óin murmured to himself, and Baggins flinched at the suggestion, turning to the healer with wide, alarmed eyes, “but I’d rather not risk it. Not till we get near some water to clean out the wounds – I won’t chance infection. Best thing to do is push out the biggest ‘o ‘em and wrap it up.”

“With what?” Asked Master Baggins, clearly nervous, but covering it as best as he was able with annoyance.

Óin frowned at that, unsure what to do with no bandages, no salves, no supplies.

“Here,” came a voice, and there was Nori, grime covered, intricate hair mussed beyond repair. He held something out to them then, a bundle of fine blue cloth, soft and suspiciously clean. “This should work well enough, yeah? Consider it the prize for winin’ our little contest.”

Thorin did not know what he meant by that, nor had he heard his approach, so caught up in his focus on the Burglar’s ruined hands.

“Prize?” Master Baggins echoed, blinking up at Nori in doe-eyed surprise, “But I didn’t win, Master Nori, not really.”

The dwarf scoffed at that, tossing the bundle onto the hobbit’s lap unceremoniously and fiddling with his belt as he looked away sharply.

“Got caught, didn’t I? Counts as a loss to me,” he said, though he did not sound as upset about the matter as he should, “though one I’ll thank ya for, all the same.”

With a wink and a smirk that did not reach his eyes, he turned on his heel and sauntered back to the fire, settling next to his brothers though not before scowling pointedly at Dwalin across the flames. For his part the large dwarf sneered back, and bent himself to cleaning his axes, pretending for all the world as if he hadn’t been watching the thief’s movements all the while.

Thorin internally scoffed at the foolish posturing. He would have to redouble his efforts not to pay any mind to the embarrassing ordeal now that the two of them seemed to have come to a base understanding – only to devolve into another petty fight in less than a week.

He was brought back to the matter at hand by Master Baggins’ affronted huff as he rolled his eyes.

“What on Arda is the point of all that glaring?” He muttered to himself, wincing when Óin snorted and took the cloth from him.

“Stubborn,” the dwarf grumbled in reply, unfolding and inspecting the close weave of the fabric, “this’ll do - though I’ll tell ya to clean out the filth properly as soon as ya can. Good stuff, for elvish make.”

He then bent to the task of bandaging the burglar’s hands as best as he was able, practiced movements in winding circles. Baggins winced and bit at his lip as the dwarf worked, and Thorin could not decide whether to focus on his bloodied hands or his pained face.

Hands were the instruments by which Mahal’s will was done – divine creation and skill brought to mortals, the manifestation of purpose, the drive for knowledge and the soul-deep need to bring something into the world. The tools for building homes, and cities, and kingdoms, for waging wars, and writing histories. For cutting gems and tracing the seams of old stone. For holding children and braiding plaits into a lover’s hair. Hands were sacred and revered and indicative of all the deeds of a life.

Thorin did not have to see Óin’s scowl to know that Master Baggins’ hands would forever bear the scars of this tale. Of these deeds.

“This’ll have to hold for now,” Óin said at last, tugging a tight knot into the wrappings, though he did not sound pleased. “Now anythin’ else ya plannin’ on hidin’ from us? A cracked rib or three? Maybe ya got a hole through ya, ya forgot to mention?”

“No, goodness gracious, that’s everything, I’m sure,” Baggins said, tearing his hands away from the dwarf and tucking them into his tattered waistcoat pockets where Thorin could no longer see them, but for the spiraling blue cloth running up his wrists, “I’m quite certainly covered in cuts and bruises, but I doubt there’s enough cloth amongst the lot of you to bandage me up so thoroughly.”

“Why would we need ta package ya up securely?” Óin said with narrowed eyes, though Thorin could see the amusement beneath, “And try not to move around too much wit’ that head o’ yours. I won’t have ya gettin’ no brain damage on my watch, ya hear?”

“Yes, yes,” he huffed, petulant frown doing nothing to hide his flush, evidently embarrassed both at Óin mishearing him and at being chided, “now perhaps you’d like to attend to your King, hm? You know the one who was mauled by a Warg? Who’s been quietly bleeding out while you fussed over little splinters, I might add.”

“Oh aye, pass the axe, why don’t ya,” Óin huffed, obviously amused though he played well enough at being annoyed at the Hobbit’s easy shirking of the argument, “Well, come now, Thorin, off with the lot of it, I haven’t got all day!”

Thorin managed to refrain from pointing out that they did, in fact, have a whole day ahead of them as the sun had only just dawned, and that Óin really oughtn’t be telling him what to do quite so freely. Then on the other hand he learned long ago that one would be wiser to stay their tongue when it came to their healer lest they find themselves in some very uncomfortable positions indeed.

He stripped out of his coats and tunic and leathers, rolling up his undershirt well enough for Óin’s prodding fingers to get at the worst of it. He pointedly ignored Master Baggin’s continued presence and the horrified little gasp that he gave at the sight.

It was well within his right, having saved Thorin’s life, to oversee his healing, if only to ensure that his efforts did not go to waste. In the old tradition there was a certain slew of other rights that one gained after saving another’s life in battle – but Thorin would not put such burdens on Master Baggins. Not when he had likely not realized the enormity of such a thing. Not when he likely had no thought to the implication or meaning of it.

“Shire’s hills,” he breathed out, voice wavering and wet and Thorin did not doubt there would be quite a grimace of disgust on his face were he to turn and look, though he refused to do so.

“Durin’s beard – Thorin, yer lucky the Wizard stopped up most yer bleedin’,” Óin said, voice grave as he felt around the edges of what Thorin was fairly sure were some rather violent teeth marks, “yer riddled with holes. Stone upon earth, if the Hobbit hadn’t had a quick step about it you’d ‘ave been joinin’ Mahal’s guard ere the eagles landed!”

“I would have been beheaded before I bled out, I assure you,” he bit back, grinding his teeth against the pain that flared through him at the healer’s touch.

Óin gave a truly angered snarl at that, not bothering to reply as he tested the edges of the wounds, putting pressure in places and avoiding others. The Hobbit for his part stayed uncharacteristically silent, though Thorin felt him shift closer along the log.

Thorin would have thought that he’d have left by now – too sickened by the sight of such things to bother staying to watch Óin’s work. But then, he had thought that he would turn back before they had crossed out of Eriador. He had thought that he would stay in Rivendell, and he had thought that he would turn back in the Goblin’s tunnels. He had thought he would perish in their first true battle – had thought that he would shy away from defending himself even as meagerly as he was able.

He had not thought that he would stay. He had not thought that he would survive. He had never thought to see him fight – to see him throw himself before warg and Orc and Azog himself.

Certainly not for Thorin’s sake.

He was beginning to think that he ought to stop assuming anything about the Burglar at all.

“Well,” Óin said, clearly displeased but resigned, “there’s not much to be done about this up here. Not with no supplies and no place to forage makeshift ones either.”

“What?” Master Baggins asked, voice just short of outrage as Óin ordered Thorin to redress. “What do you mean ‘not much to be done? The poor dwarf looks like a pincushion! Shouldn’t you at least wrap him up? Here, you can use my bandages – I need them far less, I- “

“I’ll thank ya not to tell me ‘ow to do my job, Master Hobbit,” Óin snapped, though Thorin could see the offense was perfunctory more than anything else, “and I’d not close up wounds rife with foulness if they ain’t bleedin’ no more. Infection’s killed more dwarrow than blood loss ever had, and a warg bite ‘s the worst thing for it. I’ll speak to the Wizard about getin’ us put down some place with clean enough water for proper tendin’ to it. Keep yer bandages – Nori stole ‘em for ya fair an’ square.”

Master Baggins balked at that, another flush coming to his face as he stared at his feet, fiddling with the edges of the wrappings he had hastily begun to pick apart. Óin huffed at them both before he patted the Hobbit’s knee and stood.

“Get some rest,” he said, gruff and uncaring that Thorin had not actually given them any leave to rest, “ya need it after the night – ah, no, _nights_ we’ve had. Wouldn’t advise tryin’ to get on one o’ them birds without some shut eye. Won’t be no good to ya if ya fall off! I’ll make sure one of the lads wakes ya up every hour or so, Master Hobbit, can’t be lettin’ ya go much longer wit’ yer rattled brains and all.”

“Rattled-?!” He squeaked, smoldering green glare impressive as it followed Óin’s retreating back. “Of all the confounded, ill-mannered - why I’ve never!” He huffed, arms coming up to cross stubbornly over his chest again, though he still managed a wince as he brushed the bandaged appendages over each other.

“I thank you for the offer, regardless, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, busying himself with donning his tunic and brigandine, though he did not miss the start that the Hobbit gave at being addressed, “and also for your deeds on the cliff. It was –,” unexpected, without reason, or hope of proper reward, terribly brave, and horribly frightening, “ – it was well done. I owe you my life.”

The Hobbit was silent for a moment, and Thorin stopped his dressing to turn and see what the matter was. He had thought it the right thing to say, in as much as there was a right thing to say when someone you have been nothing but cruel to has saved your life.

Besides, a life debt was no small thing, and at the least he thought Master Baggins would understand that much.

But the look he was giving him, pale faced and wide eyed, his brow drawing tight in what might have been anger, was not the look of demure acceptance he had expected.

“Well done?” He repeated, aghast, as if he was not quite sure that Thorin could dare to say such a thing, “Well _done_? Can you even hear yourself? Well done! Yavanna help me, never in my life have I met such a reckless, irresponsible, inconsiderate oaf of a person! Well done!”

“Irresponsible?” Thorin asked, taken aback, completely out of his depth faced with an irate Hobbit he had been fairly certain he had been praising not a moment ago.

“Yes! What on Arda was going through that thick skull of yours?” He asked, jumping to his feet and stumbling as his no doubt aching head got the better of him. Quite without thought Thorin lurched forward to catch him. Thankfully, he caught his footing just as quickly, though he glared all the more for Thorin’s attempt at aid. “What, did you think you’d just get yourself torn to pieces and be done with it? What about the rest of us, then? What about this Company, this quest? What about the damned dragon, and your bloody mountain?” He waved his arm frantically to the East and Thorin’s focus was torn between his rapidly flushing face and the dark blue of his bandaged hands. “What about Fíli and Kíli, then? What do you think they would have done, seeing their Uncle torn apart by wargs? What about – what about- “

“Master Baggins,” he said, rising to his own feet when the Hobbit’s breathing became so labored that he seemed unable to finish his own sentence, “Master Baggins, calm down.”

“I will not calm down!” He shouted, and to Thorin’s rising horror, tears began to gather in his tired eyes, “I’m sick to death of trying to calm down! I have been chased and nearly murdered by orcs, and wargs, and worse things yet. I have been belittled by dwarrow and elves, and – and bloody birds, for Yavanna’s sake! I’ve ran, and I’ve fought, and I – Thorin, I’ve killed things!” His voice broke then, and Thorin did not know that such a thing could cause him pain, but it did, the scared look in his eyes and the tears on his face, the awful crack in his voice, “I’ve starved and I’ve bled and I didn’t do it just to watch you throw yourself at a warg when the mood strikes you!”

“Master Baggins -,” he said, unsure what he was going to say, unsure what would calm him, unsure if he had the right to say anything at all.

“No! No, I don’t care, whatever it is I don’t care!” He said, anger flaring brighter as he stepped up to Thorin, pointing one bloody finger at his chest, ever mindful of his wounds even in his rage, “I may be a stupid little Hobbit – I may not know a thing about any of this, and frankly I don’t care to! I’d just as soon never have seen an Orc in my life! But now I have, and here I am, and I won’t let you decide to give it all up just – just for some silly old blood feud! I don’t care!”

He threw his hands up as if to demonstrate how much he did not care and Thorin was once again distracted by the makeshift bandages – bandages that would not have been there if Thorin had not thought it better to die a warrior's death than to find some way out of that mess. If Thorin had not dragged him out of his little hole in the ground and thrown him to all the dangers of the world with nothing but scorn and vague promises of a reward that he did not even want. If Thorin had not let memories of his father and his brother and his grandfather outweigh the importance of this quest – the quest for a home, for the rightful halls of his people, filled with warmth and wealth, and honor. Of trade for his penniless folk, of halls for their tattered guilds, of a throne for his nephews to inherit. Of prosperity and safety after all these long years of scraping by in a colony he had carved for them from a ruined mountain range.

What was a blood feud in light of a mountain reclaimed?

What was one family’s shame in light of the suffering of hundreds? Was it not the Royal Family’s obligation to look toward their people’s comfort before their own? What was shame in battle and death compared to the shame of leaving one’s people impoverished and starved?

What was Azog compared to Erebor?

“You are right,” he said, and Master Baggins stopped his furious fussing at that, staring up at him with wide confused eyes, angry tears cutting through the grime of these long days past, “I should not have lost sight of my goal. It was irresponsible of me – unfitting as the leader of this Company.”

He had given too much – his people, this Company, had given too much to let it all fall away because he could not look past his own vengeance.

His blood still sang for the death of that wretch, but he knew that it was a vengeance he could deal better with an army at his back.

With the Arkenstone he would command the might of all Seven Clans – the dragon would fall, and after that Azog would not be long for this world, of that he had no doubt.

“I – well, I didn’t say that – you,” Master Baggins seemed to blink himself out of his shock, and realizing his proximity, stepped back from Thorin, patting his pockets as though in search of something, though he did not find it, “you are a good leader, Thorin. When you’re not being insufferable.”

He sniffed quietly and began to wipe at his cheeks with his bandaged wrists, cheeks flaming red as he seemed to realize the state he was in. Thorin wanted to reach out and comfort him, somehow, though he knew not what to say, and even if he did, he did not think that he had the right.

Master Baggins was right, after all, he had given so much more to this quest than Thorin had ever recognized. And all Thorin had ever given him in turn was scorn and pain.

“I – I’m sorry,” he said then, nervous fingers fiddling with his bandages as he kept his head ducked, so marked a difference from his boldness mere moments ago. Thorin did not think that he would ever be able to understand this creature or predict his actions. He found the thought less uncomfortable than it ought to have been, “For yelling at you. You’re hurt, and you must be tired, and I should have saved it for later. Not that you didn’t deserve it, mind you.”

His voice was so stern then, thin brow furrowed in stubbornness as he at last looked up to meet Thorin’s gaze, and Thorin could not help but smile at him, then. The flush of his cheeks, and the brightness of his eyes, and the annoyed little twitch of his nose, the way that he shifted on his feet and fiddled with his bandages, all too much just then for Thorin to pretend to be annoyed with.

“My sister often says it does me well to be scolded every now and again,” he found himself saying, taking a step closer to rest his hand on a thin shoulder without thought, “and I’m afraid that Balin doesn’t manage to work up a fury quite the way she does.”

“And I’m to take it that I do?” Master Baggins said, and though his voice sounded affronted, a small smile worked its way across his face, and Thorin felt himself smile all the wider for it.

“Well enough, Master Baggins,” he agreed, reveling in the amused little huff that escaped the hobbit. He raised a bandaged hand to scrub at his still wet cheek absently, and Thorin had the thought that he would have to avoid making the hobbit so upset if it brought him to tears so easily. He did not think he could ever win an argument against him if it were so. “We ought to get some rest, now, before we continue on.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he agreed with a put upon sigh, though Thorin did not miss the exhaustion in his eyes or the slope of his shoulders, “the sooner we rest the sooner we can take our leave and get to somewhere Master Óin can properly treat those wounds of yours.”

“And yours,” Thorin replied, frowning as Master Baggins waved a hand dismissively, “Master Baggins, I will not have any member of my company fall to illness. Certainly not when it is preventable.”

Master Baggins blinked at him in surprise for a moment, eyebrows rising dramatically as he looked him over, as if seeking a sign of insincerity.

“Oh? So, I’m a member of your Company, now, am I?” He asked, domineering pout returning as he placed his hands on his hips, “And here I’ve followed you across half a continent on the assumption that I was a burden and no more.”

And what was Thorin to say to that? Certainly, he had dragged him across half a continent thinking him no more than a burden. Until now he had never once counted him as a true member of the Company, had denied even that basic camaraderie, though he had signed to the task.

“And as I have said, I was wrong in that.” As he had been shown a hundred times over by this odd little creature, and as he would prove in turn a hundred times more, if he must.

A pleasing flush swept Master Baggins’ face then, hands flying up to fiddle with his braces as he looked away. Thorin found himself terribly amused by the embarrassed look he wore, if only because it so juxtaposed his earlier cheek.

“Ah, yes well – well, thank you.” He said, though he sounded as if he might have said something else, and Thorin found himself wondering what it might have been, and if it would have been half so amusing. “Well. Well! Off with me, I suppose, for – for rest, and all that. Have to see what Bombur’s done with that rabbit. It’s not proper for a Hobbit to skip breakfast you know!”

Thorin watched him turn to scurry away, head bent and ears red, and found himself still smiling at his back. Master Baggins settled himself beside the family Ur, who fussed over his injuries and forced a steaming leg of meat into his hands. They had been given clear instructions to wake him every hour, and as Thorin watched them snark at the hobbit he found himself feeling lighter than he ought to have after the events of the night before.

With a shake of his head at the antics of the Company, he himself made his way to the fire, intent on resting his aching bones as much as he was able before they must once again make toward their goal.

He lowered himself carefully onto the ground, leaning back against a log as he absorbed what heat he could from the fire. He had almost lost himself to a restless sleep when a sharp grunt and approaching feet startled him into alertness once more.

Dwalin stood above him, shoving a hunk of what looked to be roasted mutton in Thorin’s face, which he took gratefully. They had been in the mountain pass for days without proper rest and the battle with the goblins had used up whatever energy they had left. Thorin knew that he had very little left to push him forward and that the others had even less. He would not begrudge any of them a moment of reprieve – of rest and food and warmth and the chance to recollect themselves.

Already he could see Dori fussing at his brothers and their ruined braids, and Gloín arguing good naturedly with his own even as he pretended not to hear. Fíli and Kíli had stuck themselves to the sides of the hobbit, surrounded by the family Ur, and though he wanted to have them near, he would not separate them from their fun. They deserved it after all that had befallen them.

“Stop the fuckin’ sulkin’ and eat yer food,” Dwalin said, kicking at his boot and sitting himself on the log which Thorin was leant against.

“Someday,” Thorin said absently as he set to eating the surprisingly tender meat, “I’m going to find a dwarf who fights just as well as you do and has some sense of respect. I’d like to see what you’d do for a living then.”

“Somethin’ that pays better and spares me from stubborn royal bastards,” Dwalin replied, as if he was not in fact part of that same line of stubborn bastards, and is if he had not been doing the exact same duties with or without pay for most his life.

“Ah, but then there would be no one to make you seem reasonable by comparison,” he argued, smile sharp as he picked at his meal. He did not need to look at his friend to know that it was returned.

“Shut it,” Dwalin barked, nudging Thorin’s shoulder with his leg roughly, not even bothering to apologize at the hiss of discomfort it caused, “ ‘sides seems to me ya might be makin’ a change for the better there.”

“What?” Thorin bit out, shuffling pointedly away from Dwalin and his sharp knees.

“Well, ya changed your mind ‘bout the halfling,” Dwalin answered, absently testing the edge of one of his knives before a wicked smirk took over his face and he cut him a salacious glance, “and I know your not the type o’ dwarf who’d play nice just ‘cause ya want to get in his trousers.”

Thorin inhaled sharply at that, sending a bite of mutton straight down his windpipe, and launching him into a coughing fit that rattled through his wounded chest painfully. Dwalin’s hand came down hard and unhelpful on his back and he blindly pushed him away as he regained his breathing.

“What?” He managed to rasp out between short breaths and incredulity.

“I’ve got eyes, ya know,” Dwalin replied, eyeing him warily as he regained his breath, “even a blind dwarf could see ya making moon-eyes at the wee thing.”

“Dwalin, that is not funny –“

“Like hell it isn’t,” Dwalin interrupted, even as he saw the flush that no doubt crept over Thorin’s face – at the indignity of such an accusation, “’specially when ya let him holler at ya like that. Mahal, Thorin, ya shoulda seen the soppy look on your face –“

Dwalin did not finish the sentence as Thorin had pushed him backwards off of the log he sat upon, sending him sprawling on his back in the dirt.

“What was that for?!” He barked, scrambling back up to his seat with a glower, “I’m just teasin’, don’t get a knot in your beard. ‘Sides anyone who endures gettin’ ta know your sorry arse knows ya ain’t the type. To good for a roll in the sheets like the rest of us, aren’t ya?”

“What gave you the idea, I do not know, but I’ll warn you to keep it to yourself before I force you to,” Thorin ground out, low and angry. He knew that Dwalin was only teasing – he knew that. He had a begrudging respect for Master Baggins, and it was glaringly obvious in light of his previous disregard, and Dwalin only sought to make a crude jest at his expense based on the fact. It was not out of the ordinary, and truly, Dwalin had said worse. He knew that. And yet he felt a vicious defensiveness bubbling up in his chest as he glared down his oldest friend.

Dwalin’s smirk faded then, brows climbing up his stern face.

“Durin’s beard,” he said, somehow surprised, as if he had not expected the threat, idle as it was despite Thorin’s rising anger, “you’re serious.”

“Aye, and I’ll not hear another word of this nonsense or I assure you I won’t hold my temper,” he ground out, undeterred by Dwalin’s growing bafflement.

“What the-,” he began, cutting himself off as he leaned closer to Thorin, as if to check that he was being truthful – and why Dwalin would doubt him he did not know. It would not have been the first time an argument between them had come to blows and it was surely not to be the last. But as Dwalin seemed to find that Thorin was sincere it did nothing to alleviate his bafflement. He leaned back then, turning his gaze across the fire and – to Thorin’s growing ire – onto the Hobbit in question, already snoring softly into Bofur’s shoulder. “I mean, alright he’s cute in a weird, exotic, hairless sorta way, but – fuck, Thorin, you’re serious?”

“About shutting you up?” Thorin asked, biting and cold as he made to get to his feet, “Certainly.”

Dwalin threw his hands up then, to stop Thorin’s burgeoning assault – though Thorin knew that it was not from fear.

“Sit the fuck down, I’ll drop it,” he said quickly, gaze troubled where it had been teasing, and Thorin did not understand why, but it was better than nothing. He frowned at Thorin for a moment, and the two of them said nothing though neither broke their stare. “I didn’t know.” Dwalin said at last, and it was a sincere an apology as Thorin was going to get. They settled into a troubled silence then, each keeping to his own thoughts, though they did not abandon each other's company.

Though how Dwalin – one of those who knew him best, his dearest friend, and oldest comrade – had not thought that questioning his intentions so would cause him insult he did not know. To accuse him of regarding Master Baggins with less than honorable intentions, to insinuate that he would have changed his mind about him, or altered his actions to suit his own base interests – base interests than were entirely false and not anywhere close to the truth, mind. Even if the Hobbit was fair to look upon, that did not mean much as Thorin had seen many a fair face and had never been swayed before.

And while he knew that Dwalin himself was not exactly the most chaste of dwarrow – and indeed many warriors and even common-dwarrow were not – it had been a point Thorin had made after coming of age to accept no bedfellow that he did not intend to court. Courtship was no light gesture among their kind and his was a not uncommon way of viewing such matters. Many dwarrow did not feel the need to indulge themselves if it was not out of love and indeed many dwarrow never loved at all.

Balin – who was already snoring himself into deafness some distance away – had never felt the pull of lust or love in all his long years, and he would hardly be the first or the last dwarf to do so.

And maybe Thorin might have done as Dwalin had – taking bedfellows as the whim struck him, with no devotion or attachment – if he had the time or the energy to spare on such things. As it was, his attention was ever on the running of their slap-dash little colony and feeding his nephews or otherwise cast Eastward, to his lost Father and their lost home.

But then again, he mused to himself as he closed his eyes against the foggy morning light, he had always thought such frivolities unsatisfying without the intention of things greater still. The few such interactions he had sought as a youth – trooping through the wilds with a thousand other young warriors, each hot-blooded and just old-enough to do so, he had his share of opportunities – had been gratifying in the moment, but had always felt hollow to him in the end. Though it might have been a peculiarity of his alone, as he knew for a fact Dwalin would not spend so much time on something that he did not find worth the energy.

Perhaps, he clung too tightly to the memory of his Parents and their love, of the bond his grandparents had shared in his youth, the short-lived wonder of his sister’s blessed match. Maybe, some part of him childishly clung to the hope that he would be one of the lucky few dwarrow who would find their One in this world – though he did not believe such an honor would be granted to one such as him.

And what would he have to offer such a person, anyway?

Danger and sorrow and ruin. A crumbling colony in the West, a sacked Kingdom to the East, and claim to a forgotten line of Kings. Madness and grief and a rage that he could not manage on the best of his days.

No, he had nothing to offer.

Nothing but struggle and a slow starvation.

It was with such heavy thoughts that he slipped into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

* * *

[i] Gwaihir was the King of the Great Eagles of Manwë in the Third Age, a race that had originated in Valinór and had been sent to Arda by the Valar to aide against the evil forces there. There is some contention on whether or not he was the same Lord of Eagles that saved Thorin and Company but damn it, it makes more sense that way, okay? Also, being that they came from Valinór it makes sense that they would know Gandalf by his name from Valinór as well.

[ii] Khuzdul: ‘he who is starved’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the short chapter but Thorin was finished cooperating with me for now, I suppose.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> Dwalin has a mouth on him, and I'm sorry if that's off-putting but it's the way I've always imagined him to speak.
> 
> As for the thing about Orcs and decorative scarring - decorative scarring is an important and incredibly beautiful practice in certain cultures in the real world and I mean in no way to disparage that. It just so happens the the films very clearly used decorative scars on their Orcs and Thorin is likely to take anything about an Orc as some kind of sacrilege.
> 
> Thank you for your patience and continued support it means a lot to me!  
If you have questions feel free to drop a comment or reach me at my tumblr @ alice-the-brave


	10. Queer Lodgings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations, reflection, and more running. Oh, and a bear.

Embracing Thorin was not at all like Bilbo had thought it would be.

Not that he had thought on it – (except privately to himself on very cold nights when the fire could not warm the ice from his bones and the moonlight glinted brightly in silver streaks of hair) – not that it would be something that he would have ever had the nerve or the opportunity to attempt.

Except it turned out, that he did not need to attempt it at all, as it was Thorin himself who had initiated it. He had been, for his part, rather focused on keeping his expression neutral as the dwarf railed at him once again, only to have all of that effort tossed to the wind by the sudden crushing weight of arms pulling him against a firm chest.

Thorin had extraordinarily strong arms, Bilbo knew, and a broad chest, and long hair. And while these were all plainly observable facts that he knew quite well, it was quite another to feel the truth of them. To feel the warmth of his arms, the heaving of his barrel chest, the ticklish brush of his hair. He smelled then only dwarf and sweat and pine, and none of the blood and ash that he should have. Thorin’s breath brushed past his ear, delightful and terrifying, as he pulled him impossibly closer.

None of the outside world mattered just then – not the biting wind of the aerie or the hard-eyed gazes of the Company. All that there was, all that Bilbo knew, was the warmth and breadth of Thorin. The smell of him and the comfort of his grip, the way that his chest moved against Bilbo’s and the soft barely there brush of his nose through his hair. His furs were soft where Bilbo rested his face, his chest sturdy, and Bilbo could not be bothered to spare a thought to the impropriety of any of it.

Bilbo eventually realized that he ought to return the embrace – really, it would be rude not to. And besides, he wondered just how much better it would feel to grip the dwarf to his own chest then, to mutually cling to each other, to share the same space in that way. And when he did, when he finally clutched his ridiculous overcoat in his hands, when he felt the impossible width of this dwarf filling his arms, he felt whatever terror he’d carried with him through this long dreadful night leak from him – dissipate in a formless sigh as he slumped into Thorin’s hold.

But then Thorin was pulling away, and the terrible cold bit into Bilbo’s cheeks again, and the suddenness of such affection came back to him with the awful unwanted distance. He just barely stopped himself from pulling him back into his arms, reminding himself that Thorin did not mean it the way that he might wish him to mean it. That it was merely dwarven affection and camaraderie and passion – so much more tactile and sudden than Hobbitish friendship ever tended to be.

But the suddenness of even that, of even that scrap of affection - the thought that Thorin might feel even the smallest kindling of friendship for him - shook him so thoroughly he found that the bite of his self-imposed distance meant very little at all.

“I am sorry I doubted you,” he said, holding gently to Bilbo’s arms, and smiling down at him with such warmth that Bilbo felt all of his extensive vocabulary escape him.

He was not sure that he had ever seen Thorin smile before. Perhaps an arrogant smirk here or there or maybe a polite quirk of the lips when appropriate but never once had he ever seen him smile so – so openly. Never so warmly, so sincerely.

And never once had he ever heard him apologize – not to anyone, certainly not to him.

Bilbo must have made quite the startled picture then, because Thorin’s lovely smile slipped away into something guarded once more and Bilbo hastened to correct it.

“No, no, I would have doubted me, too,” he said, thinking then of dark caverns and hours sat alone in the cold and sorrow of it all, “I – I’m not a hero, or a warrior – not even a burglar, really.” He meant it as a joke and was gratified by the spare laughter it earned and the soft grin it coaxed from Thorin, but it was not altogether untrue.

He did doubt himself, even now, on the other side of the long darkness, he was not sure that he was strong enough to carry on. He was not any of those things. He had no business doing anything that would make others think otherwise. Had no business going on adventures, or riddling with monsters, or battling Orcs. He had no business flying on eagles or embracing Kings.

But the way that Thorin was smiling at him then, soft and amused and fond – that, he thought, was something he could justify. That if nothing else – if he woke to find that none of his half-mad, terror frenzied deeds were true, this alone he would have been sad to have lost. This he could claim – this was something that suited Bilbo Baggins just fine. This little smile from a stubborn old dwarf was enough to calm the frightened core of him that had not stilled since first he left Shirelands.

And then the calm was shattered as a gust of wind rushed by them, the sound of something great and terrible overhead, and the click of talons upon cold stone.

“Hail, Gwaihir the Windlord, Lord of the Eagles!” Cried Gandalf, voice weak in the terrible winds of the heights.

Bilbo just managed to turn and gape at Lord Gwaihir – the single greatest bird that Bilbo had seen or imagined. In truth, he was the largest creature Bilbo had ever seen, at all – larger than Men or Orcs or Wargs. He towered above even Gandalf and blocked out the early morning sun which backed him in a golden haze, glinting terrible and awesome across his coppery feathers and sharp beak. His eyes were golden and fierce, and Bilbo could taste the magic that hung around him on the wind. The very gales whispered his name and their love of him, their willingness to bend to his whim and lift his wing. It was not the crafted, learned magic of elves or the fumbling studies of Mannish mages, but something older, something rawer.

Something so terribly similar to home and yet so far apart.

Bilbo had no time to ponder such things as he was quickly drawn behind Thorin’s back, one of the dwarf’s hands stretched out in a protective gesture urging him back. The rest of the Company closed in around them and Bilbo allowed himself a moment to balk at the implication of it – the suggestion that he ought to be protected with the same fervor as their King.

“Hail, Olórin.” Came a great voice, whistling and clicking oddly where one would have expected a great rumble to resonate. Focusing once more on the Windlord Bilbo realized that it was in fact the bird itself that had spoken. A bird that could speak. A talking bird. A _giant eagle_ that spoke _Westron_. Bilbo had never heard of such a thing. Not in outrageous pub tales or any of the hundreds of books he had devoured. But no one else seemed the least bit surprised, and indeed Gandalf only smiled all the wider for it. “And his companions. Why am I unsurprised to have found the racket that caused my curiosity had a meddling wizard at its center?”

And Bilbo supposed that yes, of course, giant magic Eagles spoke Westron, how silly of him. And of course, Gandalf had some passing acquaintance with them because he was Gandalf and that was exactly the sort of impossible thing that Gandalf was wont to do. Bilbo really ought not to be surprised by anything at this point. Afterall, if anyone had told him four months ago that he would be venturing across the continent with thirteen dwarrow and a wizard he’d have been just as likely to laugh in their face as he would if they’d suggested the existence of such a thing as Gwaihir the Windlord.

Bilbo supposed that it really wasn’t all that bad of a surprise, certainly not compared to the horrors that he had plucked them from. And besides, there was something terribly wonderful about the Eagles, and their Lord in particular.

Gwaihir exuded such an air of majesty from him and did it so effortlessly that one hardly felt affronted by it all. He was sure the bird would have commanded the title Windlord even if he had stood only the height of an everyday falcon. Bilbo ached then to sit down with a pen and describe the scene in detail – the regal Lord of Eagles and his Kingdom in the clouds, the Thirteen dwarrow stood to face him bravely with only a wizard to parley with their host.

He wondered then what he would have said of himself, in such a telling. If he would have had the nerve to write of the lone Hobbit stood sheltered behind the Dwarrow and their King. If it would have been believable, or if it would have detracted from the majesty of the occasion.

He was shaken from his wayward thoughts by Gwaihir as the eagle lord reared back and puffed up his feathers irritably, presumably at something that Gandalf had said, though whatever it was Bilbo was quite embarrassed to have missed. He had been distracted by his musings, and truthfully, he found it difficult to focus on the conversation in front of him, though it was surely one of the most wonderful things he had ever been witness to.

“We are deeply obliged to you, but in the meantime, we are famished with hunger.” Gandalf said, after something else that Bilbo did not catch but seemed to assuage the Eagle’s irritation well enough. And Bilbo could have hugged Gandalf for the suggestion of food, for Bilbo’s hunger had not abated even the slightest from his wanderings in the caves.

Lord Gwaihir clicked at him and shook out his feathers before he turned his massive form and dove from the cliff. In the next moment, the gales lifted him up and across the open air before them, where his piercing cry echoed between the cloud hazed spires of his domain. He spoke the tongue of eagles then, that of birds and birds alone, and his convocation echoed back their own haunting response as they scattered from their lofty perches.

And so, it seemed that rest was to be had at last, after what Bilbo was rather certain had been more than a full day of wandering in the foul bowels of the earth. And not a moment too soon, as he could hardly feel his toes and his knees had begun to feel weak as the last of his adrenaline eased from him.

The eagles brought up tinder and wood for them to make a fire, gracious enough to realize the lack of protection the aerie afforded their featherless guests from the cold. And so too did they bring up food, small game of rabbit and squirrel, and even a small lamb, though they nearly knocked Dwalin over with it, much to the Company’s amusement.

The Company, he was pleased to see, was complete and relatively unharmed, praise be to the Lady and Eru. He did not know how they could have been so lucky, with the odds that they faced, but he supposed that dwarrow really were made of stronger stuff than he. Still, he was methodical as he looked over each of them, searching for hidden limps or winces behind jeering smiles and laughter.

“Baggins!” Called a gruff voice from a distance away, and Bilbo jumped as he was once again woken from his hazy thoughts. “Get yer little arse over here before I drag ya! Don’t think I missed all the tumblin’ about ya did back there!”

Turning about, Bilbo found Óin and Thorin standing apart from the Company. Óin was staring at him with a rather put-upon look, as though Bilbo were some misbehaving faunt, even as Thorin looked just as startled by the summons as Bilbo was. And while Bilbo did not in the least appreciate any mention of his arse, and especially did not appreciate being called little, or the threat of physical repercussions, he could not deny himself the temptation to be closer to Thorin’s side.

The dwarf had suffered terribly in his foolish dash at Azog, and Bilbo was loath to be apart from him until he knew he was not in pain.

(Bilbo would not think on the moment that he had heard his pained cry, or the sound of cracking oak and bone, heard even over the crackling of flame. He would not think on hazy blue eyes, unfocused and pained. He would not. And to ensure that he would not, he would focus on the clarity of those eyes as they were now.)

He made his way over to the two, taking a moment to smile politely at Thorin before he frowned at Óin.

“Well?” He said, perhaps more impolitely than he would have some months before. “Here I am.”

“Aye, though ya did your damndest not ta be,” Óin replied, forcing Bilbo back until he found himself seated on a log, one dwarf prodding at him methodically, even as the other watched impassively from the sidelines.

“Pardon?” He snapped out, for lack of anything else to say. He was unused to being handled so roughly and the audacity caused him almost as much discomfort as the insistent care beneath the actions.

“Ya know damn well ya pulled some mad stunts back there, lad, don’t deny it.” Óin said, more frustrated than Bilbo felt he had any right to be. It wasn’t as if he had intended to throw himself into the fray – in fact, he could hardly believe he’d done it even now. Óin grumbled and ordered him to strip out of his sullied coat before he resumed his poking about. “Not that our leader over here set much of an example. Conspiring to send me to an early grave, ya are! Durin’s beard, would ya sit your royal arse down, already? Your doin’ no good standin’ around bleedin’ everywhere.”

Thorin glanced to the other dwarf sharply, as if to rebuke him for the order, though in the next moment he seemed to think better of it. He moved then to seat himself beside Bilbo, and once more he was struck by the regality of it. The way that Thorin carried himself even now, riddled with wounds and exhausted, as if he sat presiding over gilded halls. Bilbo had railed against the pompousness of such a thing at first, but now he saw the foundation of it lay not in pride but in discipline. In duty more than superiority. And still there was that careful slowness of his actions, a thing that he did not see displayed around any of the others, that seemed to be solely reserved for him. As if he was giving Bilbo every opportunity to pull back, to send Thorin away.

As if he ever would.

Bilbo could not imagine a time when Thorin ever had or ever could have intimidated him enough for him to retreat.

Perhaps, then, he should have felt insulted by it – the deliberate caution, the precise distance he sat apart on this shattered log – but all that he felt was fondness, and a gratification at the concern. Had he been a different Hobbit – less stubborn, less strange, it would have been necessary. As it was, it was something that was equally unnecessary as it was appreciated.

Still, he did not miss the tightening of Thorin’s jaw, the strain about his eyes, as he moved. It was obvious he was in pain, and the thought of it worried something oddly guilty in Bilbo.

(He knew that it wasn’t his fault – that Thorin would have thrown himself into whatever dramatic blood-feud that had been with or without his presence.

Still, the insistence of his uselessness, the constant reminder of his being a burden, colored the horror in more guilt than he logically knew was due.)

He was distracted from his musing then, by Óin’s rough hand running along a raw scrape up his arm. The sting of it caused him to hiss and he wondered how it could have gone unnoticed so long.

“Quiet now, yer distractin’ me,” he said, as if Bilbo was being obstinate in his pain, “had a tumble and cut yourself on some shale, did ya?”

And Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. He had suffered quite the ‘tumble’ indeed and cut himself on any number of things besides common shale. Frankly, sharp rocks had been the least of his concerns in those nightmarish caverns.

It occurred to him then, that all that horror had come and gone and with no one aside from himself any the wiser. He thought then that he should tell them, that he ought to detail the entire sordid tale and all of the dread that he had felt deep beneath those mountains where he had no hope of being found. But then what purpose would that serve? To lay all that terror and strangeness at their feet when they were all so focused on their own goal, and had seen much worse things besides, he was sure.

Bilbo had seen the terror of familiar things twisted and corrupt, but he had never seen the complete desolation of all he had known. Not like Thorin had. He imagined that it would be infinitely worse.

“I suppose so?” He answered at length, unsure if the answer would satisfy the dwarf, but hesitant to divulge any more than was necessary, “I did take quite a dreadful fall – when we separated, in Goblin-town.”

Óin frowned at him, his heavy brow somehow bent into an even more displeased expression than it always was. He reached forward without warning, then, and grabbed at Bilbo’s head, large hands rough as they brushed past his ears and settled harshly on the back of his skull.

Pain flared through him then, sharp where Óin touched him and spreading into a pulsing ache through his head.

“Enough of that, now,” Óin chided, and it was only then that Bilbo realized he had recoiled and shut his eyes against the pain.

The old dwarf ran his hands gently over the back of Bilbo’s skull. Mindful of his regal audience, he did his best to grit his teeth and bear the discomfort as the healer did his work. Eventually, Óin came to a halt, a surprisingly concerned frown marring his face as he pulled away.

“Ach, there ya are – took a knock to your fool head, di’n ya?” The dwarf asked and Bilbo stared in muted surprise at the dried flakes of blood on his hands.

Was he bleeding? Bilbo did not remember taking a blow to the head, not in particular. He had been tossed about and battered all over and he was sure he had knocked his skull off of something somewhere along the line, but he had not registered any blood, had not thought to be concerned.

“Look here, follow my finger wit’ your eyes.” Óin ordered, holding up one large hand and moving it very slowly in purposeful lines.

Bilbo did his best to follow the movement but, much to his own surprise, he found himself losing his focus on the hands before him. One moment he was watching the movement carefully and the next he found that Óin’s finger was a hands breath to the left and he had been staring at empty space. It was frustrating and inexplicable to him, who had always had uncommonly keen focus among Hobbits. It was not your common Hobbit that could stand to sit for hours at end in front of a writing desk, and indeed the thought of sitting still long enough to read an entire book was downright repulsive to most. Hobbits were not particularly active, but they liked to keep their hands busy more than their minds.

“Concussed,” Óin said under his breath, muttering more dwarvish nonsense and fussing around his person in search of something, “dizzy? Feelin’ sick? Headache? Did ya knock out when it happened or any time after?”

“Uh, well – I – yes?” Bilbo answered, overwhelmed, and still trying to process the fact that he had somehow managed to escape all that with only a concussion for the trouble. For his part Óin grumbled and carried on in that dwarvish way they all seemed to have of seeming like miserly old men whatever their ages. He absently began to rifle through his pockets, finding nothing but a tattered little book for his trouble. “Though none of which are new, Master Óin,” Bilbo assured, realizing now that he did not, in fact, want the attention a head injury would earn him, “I’ve felt sick and dizzy and my head has ached for a good while before this mess. Though, I suppose, I did black out during my fall and on our flight here. Not that it would be unusual, I’ve never been much for heights.”

And it had been one thing for a fastidious little Baggins, always plucking the other Baggins faunts from damage and danger, but it had been quite another for little Bilbo, least bold of his Took cousins. In Tuckborough, where he was no longer eldest of the horde, he had ever lost what dignity age and responsibility had given to his refusal. Even mousy little Sigismond would tease him for his fright. It was a strange Took indeed that hadn’t climbed every tree about the Great Smials, and even stranger to grow so faint when forced.

Bilbo was so lost in his thoughts, delightful childhood memories that they were, that he hardly noticed the approaching dwarf until large hands were already rucking up what was left of his shirt. He shouted in surprise – and a fare bit of outrage – as he attempted to swat away Óin’s wandering hands. The dwarf for his part, was not so easily deterred and Bilbo felt calloused fingers skitter across his stomach and ribs before he managed to push him away.

Hastily he pulled his shirt back into place, restoring whatever modesty he had left, even as Óin began his cursed dwarvish mumbling anew.

“What in the name of the Lady was that for?!” He snapped, half convinced he ought to kick the dwarf on his backside right then and there. He knew that dwarrow were tactile and freer with these things than Hobbits, but even they had to have some sense of boundaries! Of modesty or - or a decent state of dress for company!

Of asking permission before you put your bloody dwarf-mitts all over a fellow!

(And right in front of Thorin! As if the blasted dwarf needed another incident to think ill of him over. As if Bilbo had needed to feel the embarrassment of being half dressed in front of him on top of everything else.)

“You fool-headed, daft, little thing!” Óin shouted back, the force of it stopping Bilbo’s incoming tirade cold. “Damned mabinbalgûn[i], dinnae say a cursed thing!”

The old healer spit angrily into the dust and rock as he muttered to himself, furious gaze swinging from his little book to Bilbo and back again as he leafed through it.

Dumbfounded at the force of Óin’s anger and the dwarvish words he flung about – some of which Bilbo was fairly certain were curses – he blinked in silence for a moment before turning to Thorin for an explanation. Instead of answers, though, he found himself shocked still.

Thorin looked stricken.

Truly, his face was impossibly pale, even more than it should have been after accounting for his blood loss. His mouth was open in some breathless exclamation of grief that Bilbo was equal parts honored and horrified to find that he recognized. He had seen it before on the mountain pass, where he had thought one of his nephews lost. He had seen it amidst the Goblin hordes, his Company trapped with no salvation in sight. He had seen it bathed in flame and the black of night, horror at the sight of Azog riding where such nightmares had been long banished.

He had not thought to ever see it directed at him. Had never wished for such a thing, and even now he felt some sympathetic misery crash over him at the sight, at the wet glint in pale eyes and the soft, lost curve of his strong jaw. At the tremulous bow of furrowed brows and the awful certainty that somehow, he had caused it.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said, croaked, voice raw and cracking where it had always been strong and sharp, tempered steel and sharpened blade, “Master Baggins, you are starved.”

The words broke him from his guilt just as quickly as they drowned him in one older and half dead.

Bilbo had done a very good job of getting past these things. He had, truly. He no longer grew fearful at the first sign of frost, he didn’t impulsively ration his food without cause. He had learnt to sit across from Bungo’s armchair and to dust around Belladonna’s broach and he’d done it on his own, thank you very much.

So, what if he hadn’t been eating quite as much as he was used to?

The dwarrow ate hardly anything at all and none of them complained for it. He had gone without before and he could again where it was necessary – here, on the road, it was necessary.

It was not as if he was intentionally denying himself food. It was only that he refused to take more than his share.

But he had not accounted for the fierce anger it would cause in Óin. Had not given thought to the haunted shadow that would swallow Thorin’s eyes. All at once, he was terribly afraid of the others knowing – of their anger or, immeasurably worse, their grief, their sadness, or pity.

“Not so loud, if you don’t mind,” he hissed, bowing his head under the weight of it all, “I’d rather not cause the others a fright.”

And in the Shire that would have been that. Not causing a fright, avoiding a scandal, keeping things hush-hush - it was an age old and deeply ingrained part of their culture. In the Shire that phrase would have been a sure way to end the conversation, a certain defense mechanism that all Hobbits, no matter their impropriety respected. The Shire was born of secrets and so too did they run through the land like blood, quiet, unbeknownst but there all the same.

(There were no true secrets in the Shire, only those things that everyone agreed they would rather not talk about.)

But it seemed that for all of their secrets, dwarrow were not the same in such matters.

“The others?!” Óin barked, just as angry as he had been before, completely demolishing all the rules of polite confrontation that Bilbo had ever known, “Worry about your health before ya worry about them! What good is peace o’ mind to anyone if it costs ya your life?”

And Bilbo did not know what to say to that, not at all. He had spent such a large portion of his life clutching after peace of mind. Had been so desperate to regain normalcy and safety and comfort that it had become all he could think of until he had it. And he had never done anything to jeopardize it thereafter.

He had ceased his explorations, his walks to the borderlands, his musings on elves and men and magic. He had put away his little toy sword and his mother’s walking stick. He had convinced himself that he no longer craved such things, even as he pinned his maps carefully to his study wall, even as he took walking holidays around the whole of the Shire. He must have walked the entirety of the Four Farthings by now. In increments, one small walk after another, an afternoon stroll somehow taking him all the way to Frogmorton before he realized himself and turned back toward the Hill. He walked and walked, and he convinced himself that it was enough, like a dog circling its kennel walls, halfheartedly seeking a way out.

But he was comfortable in Hobbiton and he clung to that comfort as all Hobbits did.

Bilbo did not know how to say that to these dwarrow, but he felt he must say something, as all Tooks did.

“Why did you not speak up?” Thorin spoke instead, voice steady once more, as if it had never wavered, though the accusing edge it might once have had was jarringly absent. “Have you not been eating?”

“Of course, I’ve been eating!” He snapped back, offended at the implication that he was – was starving himself intentionally. That was a terribly rude thing to say to a Hobbit. He wasn’t a fool and he wasn’t self-sacrificing enough for that. He was only a little leaner than he was a few months ago. These things happen. These things had to happen. This was how people changed. Sometimes it hurt, but he wasn’t foolish enough to really put himself in harm’s way like that.

He wasn’t starving. He was only hungry. He knew the difference.

(Too well, he thought, too well for a gentle hobbit who lived in the bounty of the Shire.

But the winter came hard and fast and the crop withered in the soil, and a hundred tiny hobbits with it.

Bilbo knew starvation and he was not starving. Not yet.)

“What kind of question is that?” He asked, defensive, disliking the weight of Thorin’s eyes on him when he felt so small, so very less than he already was. “I’ve had exactly as much as everyone else and I don’t see you fussing over them!”

Which was a blatant lie, of course. Bilbo did see, all the time, how Thorin worried over the company and the quest and their fate. How he worried about kingdoms and entire cities of people that he loved so fiercely Bilbo could hardly imagine it.

(Loving anything that much seemed terribly exhausting; too noble and sacrificial for someone like Bilbo.)

“’Cause they aren’t bein’ starved!” Óin snarled, before Thorin could reply, though judging by the look in his eye, Bilbo wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what he had to say. “You’re not too far along that we can’t fatten ya up again. If we’re ta start replenishin’ whatever meat you’ve lost I’ll need ta know what your folk eat and how much – frequency, quantity, nutrition. Leave nothin’ out, don’t spare the details.”

Óin was surprisingly determined in this. Bilbo had not thought to see such a personal interest taken in his own health, not even after the tenuous acquaintance he’d built with the dwarrow. He did not doubt that they would keep him alive, of course not, they were obligated by contract and necessity both to do so and they were decent folk besides. But Óin seemed almost angry at the state of him, and Bilbo knew that it was not annoyance at being inconvenienced so that drove him.

(Bilbo had not dared to hope that any among them had come to care about him, certainly not someone he had never managed to get overly familiar with.

The idea of it was so foreign he could hardly bring himself to consider it, and yet here it was.)

The unfortunate part in all of this was that Bilbo had grown fond of them in turn. He did not want them to worry for his sake nor could he bring himself to cause them any guilt by admitting to his hunger. He did not want to be a burden, and truthfully, he knew that whatever fuss they made over it, and however much they grumbled, they would not let him starve and would be very cross with him for suggesting otherwise.

“Master Baggins, please,” Thorin said, softer than Bilbo had ever heard him speak before. He looked at Bilbo then as if he were something terrible and heartbreaking and half-lost already.

“It’s just-“ Bilbo said, before he himself knew what it was he was trying to say, only that he must say something, anything at all to get Thorin to stop looking so - so disturbed – anything to make him sure and stubborn once more, “I’m sorry, it’s just not enough.” He said, and winced at the truth of it, at the terrible selfish way that it sounded, and the guilt he felt bubbling in his chest. “You dwarrow – you, well, I don’t know how you get by on only three meals a day, it’s just not enough.” He hurried to explain, desperate to make them understand, to make it clear that he had not meant to be such a burden.

“And how many meals do Hobbits eat, then?” Óin asked, in a gentler voice than Bilbo had expected, with none of the accusation or annoyance that he was due.

“Seven,” he answered, no doubt a ridiculous number to the Company, who did not seem to mind a meager three or less, “maybe more if we’re feeling particularly indulgent that day.”

Óin blinked at him in surprise, heavy brow raised even as he heard Thorin make some aborted sound of disbelief at his side.

“It’s not as if they’re all necessary!” He assured them, uncomfortable with the shock and the concern, and frankly this entire conversation. “When put to it, we can do without, and we have before, you know. It’s just that I’ve had no time to adjust and - well, three is less than half of seven and on such a short notice, and without even a proper amount of produce!”

It was not his fault at all, really. It was not as if he had known that adventuring with dwarrow would mean such a strain, or even that he would be adventuring at all until he was already on his way out his door. There had been no preparing, no provisions, no fasting or fortitude that could have prevented this unfortunate turn of events. To feel ashamed of his natural response now was foolish, he knew.

(Still, he’d had a rather difficult day – week – month, and he felt rather entitled to grasp at whatever scrap of pride and propriety he had left.)

“And you’d not thought it wise to bring up the matter?” Óin grumbled, scribbling away in his battered book, and Bilbo would have been affronted at the chiding in his voice if it hadn’t relieved him so.

(Scolding was better than disdain. Better than annoyance or disgust, and truthfully more than he expected though he felt guilty for it now.

The dwarrow were crude and rude and very often selfish but they were not cruel, and they were decent folk. More than decent if they counted you as a friend.)

“My word, it’s not as if I’ve been keeping it secret.” He was not willing to take the full blame for this. While it was true that he had not expected such care from the dwarrow it was also true that he had come to care quite about them and had, rather embarrassingly, spoken quite a bit about Hobbits and the Shire and all things concerned therein. And invariably whenever one spoke of Hobbits the conversation eventually came around to food. “I’ve spoken of Hobbit meals and their fare and frequency to more than one of you dwarrow on this journey and its not been a cause for concern until now.”

Bombur and he had indeed spoken of hardly anything else since they realized their mutual expertise. The other dwarrow who habitually clustered about them had been forced to listen to such conversations enough that if it had been a point of concern to them it would have been brought up by now.

Dwarrow were rather straight forward like that, Bilbo had learned.

(Bilbo quite preferred it, when compared to the polite subterfuge and thinly veiled prodding of Shire conversation. Not that he would ever admit to such a thing, not for a bushel of Iris Grubb’s best apples.)

“Rocks for brains, the lot of ‘em,” Óin barked in disgust, casting a truly scathing glance at the assembled Company, “likely thought ya were just rollin’ in yer wealth – not a thought to variation in metabolism or physiology among a one! As if ya were just a queer shaped dwarf!”

And Bilbo thought that it was a remarkably uncharitable thing to say, even if he had thought so to himself on his worse days quite often enough. Besides, he would count himself rather lucky if the Company did think of him as such – to be considered one of their own, he knew, was among the highest of honors any could receive from a dwarf.

(He tried not to let the fact that Óin had implied it get his hopes up. Still, something tender in him ached for it to be true.)

“Well, what’s done is done,” Óin said with the air of someone waving off a rather tedious oversight instead of the serious medical emergency he had been making it out to be, “all we can do is fix ya up best I know how. Startin’ with seein’ the rest o’ the damage. What else ya got lad – I know that ain’t the end o’ it!”

And wasn’t that just the icing on the cake! He could very well deal with nosy and rude dwarrow, but he would not stand to be lectured as if he were a fauntling. He was a grown Hobbit, thank you very much, and there was no call for Óin to be so patronizing about the whole mess. In fact, his bedside manner was rather awful all around, and Bilbo seriously wondered if half the reason dwarrow never fell ill was simply to avoid their Doctors.

“Aha!” Crowed the dwarf in question, and Bilbo realized with a flash of annoyance that he’d gone and lost his focus again, “An’ what’s this? Butchered your wee paws ya did!”

“Paws?!” He said, trying in vain to wrench his hand away from the rough dwarven ones that had reached out to trap it. Dwarrow, he had come to learn, had terribly impressive grip strength and absolutely no mind for his comfort.

“Stop your whinin’ an’ lemme look at ya,” Óin chided with an annoyed glance, and Bilbo felt altogether seventeen summers old and somehow just as exhausted as he ought to here just past his fiftieth. He wasn’t going to win this fight – whether for his hand or his pride, and frankly he would save more of his dignity by giving up the farce now.

Óin prodded at his aching fingers with surprising care, muttering something about pebbles, and turning his hands this way and that appraisingly. It was a rather pathetic sight Bilbo would admit. He had never given much thought to his hands, really, except where he burned them on the oven or cut them on thorns in the garden. But he supposed it was a rather dismal prospect to be sure. To be a burglar with such tattered fingers – hardly suited to the task anymore, if they ever were at all.

“Could try to dig some o’ the bigger ones out with a knife,” Óin said at length, heavy brow furrowed and gaze thoughtful as he pressed on a particularly large splinter, “but I’d rather not risk it. Not till we get near some water to clean out the wounds – I won’t chance infection. Best thing to do is push out the biggest ‘o ‘em and wrap it up.”

“With what?” He could not help but to ask, hoping his incredulousness didn’t show in his voice. Oh, yes, that was all well and good for a dwarf perhaps, but Bilbo would rather stick his hand in a fire than let one of these louts carve him up with their knives and their – their – sausage fingers!

Best to wrap his hands up and keep the wounds of sight. Out of sight out of mind, as his mother always said! The less they thought on it the less temptation for well-meaning dwarrow to go poking knives where they didn’t belong.

(And hopefully, they’d all just forget that this unfortunate incident had ever happened and could carry on with whatever it was they ought to be doing instead of making such a fuss over Bilbo and his stomach, and his hands, and how he could feel his heart beating like a child’s toy drum in his skull.)

“Here,” spoke Nori, who had approached sometime during Bilbo’s silent rambling, and was thrusting a bundle of cloth toward him with the strangest look of careful nonchalance Bilbo had ever seen, “this should work well enough, yeah? Consider it the prize for winin’ our little contest.”

“Prize?” He asked, frankly surprised to be reminded of the incident that seemed so long ago now. “But I didn’t win, Master Nori, not really.”

And really, he hadn’t. If Dwalin had not interrupted their game, he was quite sure that Nori would have claimed a sound victory with that last trick of his. Bilbo hadn’t a clue how to match it then, and he’d had no time to ponder it since.

Nori scoffed and rolled his eyes and Bilbo was somehow disheartened to see his ridiculous eyebrows had fallen out of their intricate tight braids, and hung about over his sharp glare, softening the desired effect. He seemed to realize it himself and frowned something fierce as he tossed the cloth at Bilbo petulantly.

Bilbo had to force himself not to snicker at the action. Really, when or how he had gone from being appalled at their posturing to endeared by it, Bilbo hadn’t the foggiest idea.

“Got caught, didn’t I? Counts as a loss to me,” he said, trying to force more annoyance into his tone than Bilbo felt he really meant, “though one I’ll thank ya for, all the same.”

He winked and smirked thinly before he made his way back toward his brothers, sauntering off as though he’d done something quite naughty instead of simply giving a gift to a Hobbit.

And Bilbo was quite perplexed as he realized that every time he had received a gift from one of the Company – and they were gifts, he wasn’t a fool – they felt the need to wrap it tight in some excuse, some explanation or farce of exchange.

Bombur ‘traded’ him whatever edible odds and ends he found about for recipes and advice on cooking. Bofur and Bífur insisted on ‘compensating’ him for his evening tales with little carved figurines and trinkets. Dori had offered him his – regrettably now lost – blanket as ‘payment’ for caring for Ori.

Why they couldn’t just outright give him these things and name them the gifts they clearly were perplexed him, but he found himself too exhausted to ponder on it more than the clear difference in culture that it was.

Nori cast a rather nasty glare at Dwalin as he sat, and it was only then that Bilbo realized the tall dwarf had been watching the entire exchange with an impressive glower. At being caught, he only responded with a goading sneer and a pointed turn to his axes. Bilbo didn’t miss the disappointed look that flashed across Nori’s face before he too turned away. He wondered for a moment what on earth had gone wrong between those two now. He had thought they were getting along rather well, these days – rather too well, for reluctant comrades.

“What on Arda is the point of all that glaring?” He wondered with a huff. It was hardly any way to settle a dispute, and honestly neither of them were going to get anywhere if they both held out such foolishness. Not to mention it was quite honestly exasperating watching them go around scowling at each other only to turn all cow eyed when the other was not looking.

Were nasty looks some part of dwarvish flirting? Judging by Thorin’s irritated sigh beside him it seemed more likely that these two were simply too thick to get over themselves enough to do things properly.

“Stubborn,” Óin replied, though Bilbo had not expected him too, as he took up the cloth. “This’ll do - though I’ll tell ya to clean out the filth properly as soon as ya can. Good stuff, for elvish make.”

And it was. A fine weave, close and soft, but not course or itchy. It would do well on tender skin, though Bilbo regretted having to dirty it all. It was a rather lovely blue – like blue bells, or blue hydrangea. Like a spring Shire sky, a robin’s egg, or cornflower along his favorite walking trail. Like larkspur, or aquamarine – he had an aunt name Marine, and she wore a delicate broach made of the same gem that her wife had commissioned some dwarf in Bree to make. There were several blue gems, he thought, though he did not know them.

He was sure Thorin could recite them all by rote.

He seemed to like the color blue in particular, Bilbo had noticed. Most of his clothes and trinkets came in varying dark shades of it, hidden beneath the metal and leather and fur.

Like – like – lapis lazuli, or sapphire, the same blue of his eyes.

He was jolted out of those musings by a sharp tug to the bandages now securely wrapped around his hands. He felt himself flush at the embarrassing thought, and rather hoped it didn’t show on his face – the last thing he needed was either of them thinking he had already caught a fever.

(Never mind the embarrassment of his wandering thoughts. He wasn’t at fault – he was concussed after all! It was only natural that his mind took odd turns now and again.)

“This’ll have to hold for now,” Óin said, blessedly distracting Bilbo from his own mortification, “now anythin’ else ya plannin’ on hidin’ from us? A cracked rib or three? Maybe ya got a hole through ya, ya forgot to mention?”

“No, goodness gracious, that’s everything, I’m sure.” Bilbo snapped, quite put up with condescending dwarrow who wouldn’t leave well enough alone. He wasn’t so foolish as to suffer silently for pride. They had enough of that already, he was sure, what with a Dwarf like Thorin at the helm. “I’m quite certainly covered in cuts and bruises, but I doubt there’s enough cloth amongst the lot of you to bandage me up so thoroughly.”

“Why would we need ta package ya up securely?” Óin asked, old eyes narrowed suspiciously as if he couldn’t decide whether Bilbo was being clever or stupid. Bilbo grit his teeth against the annoyance he felt – it wasn’t Óin’s fault that his hearing had gone, and it would be rude of Bilbo to be cross with him for it. “And try not to move around too much wit’ that head o’ yours. I won’t have ya gettin’ no brain damage on my watch, ya hear?”

“Yes, yes,” he huffed, regretting for the umpteenth time the loss of his pipe, for he could well have done with a smoke to calm his nerves right about then. “Now perhaps you’d like to attend to your King, hm? You know the one who was mauled by a Warg? Who’s been quietly bleeding out while you fussed over little splinters, I might add.”

Well, so much for keeping his temper.

(It had been a very frowned upon thing in the Shire, that temper of his. He had inherited it from his mother, but even in her native Tookbourough it had been a queer temperament. Tooks and Brandybucks were not as steady and docile as your average Hobbit but they were hardly as peevish as Bilbo or Bella tended to be.)

Still, the dwarrow were not Hobbits and he had seen them give each other much worse at much less prompting.

“Oh aye, pass the axe, why don’t ya.” Óin huffed, blessedly unruffled, and to Bilbo’s surprise even a little amused. He smiled faintly under his mustache and Bilbo had to fight not to let his anger slip away at the pride that bubbled in his chest. He did not think that he had yet managed to get a smile out of Óin, and he was surprised at how gratified he was to see it. That is until the old dwarf turned to glance at his King and the smile was replaced with an irritated frown. “Well, come now, Thorin, off with the lot of it, I haven’t got all day!”

And though he scowled something fierce for it, Thorin stood to comply. Bilbo was so distracted by the pained grunt of effort he made that he didn’t have a chance to look away before Thorin began to disrobe. By the time he had the thought to be embarrassed he was too caught up in the sight of the dwarf stripped of armor.

He had never seen Thorin out of anything but his overcoat. There was something to be said about dwarven breadth, Bilbo was sure, and the way they were built so solidly, but all that came to mind at the moment was that somehow Thorin looked no less regal for standing about in only his shirtsleeves and trousers. Bilbo had thought – idly and with no specific intent or direction – that Thorin might seem smaller without all the fur and leather and metal about his shoulders.

He did not. His natural stance, the air about him – the cut of that strong jaw, the sharpness in sapphire eyes – his bearing or his aura, Bilbo did not know what it was but that there was something about Thorin that made him seem imposing even without layers about his shoulders.

Something in his being that made him greater than what meager space his bones occupied.

He had no name for it, and no context besides – he had no Kings or Warriors to measure him against. None but those that followed him even before this all began. All he knew was that it seemed natural and inevitable; the pull of the breeze, the flow of the tide, the awe of a Mountain’s snowy peak.

An Oak atop a hill. Knowledge and power, regal and ancient and solid.

Thorin moved to grasp at the hem of his undershirt and Bilbo had the sudden and alarming thought that it was the last of his many layers. No sooner had he resolved to politely turn away than Thorin had rolled up the shirt enough to bare the worst of his wounds.

There was blood – more blood than Bilbo had ever seen on someone still standing. Pale flesh smeared with it, and dark, deep wounds almost black with it, in vicious half-moons across stomach and chest.

(Larger than a wolf’s Bilbo knew – and was horrified at his knowing, at the empirical certainty that these were more than twice the size of a wolf’s bite, though for all that, they were not half as deep. The blood had dried a dark brown, and filthy black where Bilbo still expected to see bright red, viscous and steaming in the snow.)

“Shire’s hills,” he found himself saying, at a loss for anything else to say that was not a curse or a scream.

(And wasn’t it funny that now of all times, he found himself back in the heart of Fell Winter. Here, where the danger was behind them and rest near at hand. Where had this panic been when he had been keeping the hounds at bay? When he had plunged his sword into a snarling skull?)

“Durin’s beard,” Óin had said, and Bilbo knew enough about this Durin of theirs to know that was not a good sign, “Thorin, yer lucky the Wizard stopped up most yer bleedin’ - yer riddled with holes.” He scowled and prodded the edges of the wounds, and Bilbo felt himself grow pale at the sticky sound it made, and the sight of torn flesh being moved so, though he could not look away. “Stone upon earth, if the Hobbit hadn’t had a quick step about it you’d ‘ave been joinin’ Mahal’s guard ere the eagles landed!”

Thorin didn’t wince at the treatment or the chiding, though his jaw clenched in a way that Bilbo would not have recognized had he not spent the past quarter year watching him for such things.

“I would have been beheaded before I bled out, I assure you,” he ground out in reply, and the satisfied twitch of his lips when Óin snarled at the sarcasm tempted Bilbo to smack him across the head.

(Sometimes he wondered where Fíli and Kíli got it from, and though it seemed impossible at first, now he knew better than to think they had not inherited it from their Uncle.)

Óin continued to test the edges of the wounds, brushing away what filth he could as he went. Bilbo could not help but to move closer – as much as he was sickened by the sight, he found that he would much rather know the extent of Thorin’s wounds. He forced his hands to remain in his lap, fingers picking at his new bandaging in an effort to stop from reaching out at every clench of the dwarf’s jaw or twitch of his eye. Hobbits were not as tactile as dwarrow, but neither were they as hardy or prideful. Pain was not meant to be borne alone, and every fiber of his being ached to offer what comfort he could.

But dwarrow were proud and strong and he was sure that Thorin would take it as an insult.

He hardly needed to be coddled by a Hobbit.

“Well,” Óin said at last, “there’s not much to be done about this up here. Not with no supplies and no place to forage makeshift ones either.”

He shook his head as he spoke, motioning at Thorin to get redressed, as though poking at the gaping holes in his chest was all that he had intended to do in the first place.

“What?” Bilbo asked, incredulous as Thorin shrugged on his filthy layers, right over the still open wounds, which hadn’t even been cleaned, never mind closed or bandaged. “What do you mean ‘not much to be done? The poor dwarf looks like a pincushion! Shouldn’t you at least wrap him up? Here, you can use my bandages – I need them far less, I- “

“I’ll thank ya not to tell me ‘ow to do my job, Master Hobbit,” Óin snapped, and Bilbo couldn’t help but flinch at the curt tone, “and I’d not close up wounds rife with foulness if they ain’t bleedin’ no more. Infection’s killed more dwarrow than blood loss ever had, and a warg bite ‘s the worst thing for it. I’ll speak to the Wizard about getin’ us put down some place with clean enough water for proper tendin’ to it. Keep yer bandages – Nori stole ‘em for ya fair an’ square.”

And well – Bilbo was no doctor. And yes, alright they really didn’t have a scrap of spare linen to their names – aside from that which was wrapped around his hands.

And he was rather loathe to disregard Nori’s gift to him so easily – but all the same, they were now his bandages and it followed that he could do with them what he liked. Why shouldn’t he give them to someone who needed them more? It hardly made sense to keep them when all he suffered from were splinters and scrapes and Thorin – well, frankly, it was purely by the grace of Eru that he was still standing, Bilbo was sure.

Óin huffed and patted Bilbo’s knee before he rose.

“Get some rest,” he said, knees clicking as he stood, and Bilbo had to resist the urge to help him to his feet – old though he may be, a dwarf would not appreciate the gesture as Bilbo’s elders would have, “Ya need it after the night – ah, no, nights we’ve had.” He shook his head ruefully, and Bilbo wondered not for the first time what could have brought an old Doctor on this half mad quest of theirs. “Wouldn’t advise tryin’ to get on one o’ them birds without some shut eye. Won’t be no good to ya if ya fall off! I’ll make sure one of the lads wakes ya up every hour or so, Master Hobbit, can’t be lettin’ ya go much longer wit’ yer rattled brains and all.”

He flashed a mocking grin as he left, chuckling to himself as though he had made quite the joke.

“Rattled?!” Bilbo could not help but call after him indignantly. “Of all the confounded, ill-mannered - why I’ve never!” He huffed, truly cursing the manners of dwarven healers, and dwarrow in general for that matter. Bilbo could name at least a hundred kinder ways to have advised someone of such things and none of them included the word ‘rattled’ – as if he was cargo!

“I thank you for the offer, regardless, Master Baggins,” Thorin spoke stiffly from his side, still fussing about with his frankly ridiculous number of layers, “and also for your deeds on the cliff. It was –,” he paused, face stern and thoughtful as if it was a terribly difficult thing, finding something nice to say about Bilbo, “ – it was well done. I owe you my life.”

And well - well then! What a thing to say! ‘I owe you my life’, as if that were an actual thing that rational people said. As if Bilbo had ever meant to be in the business of saving anyone’s life at all! What kind of ninny went around counting life debts? How dreadfully dramatic.

“Well done?” He parroted, at his wits end with foolish dwarrow who would rather prattle on about honor and glory and blood feuds than bother to keep their bloody heads attached. “Well done? Can you even hear yourself? Well done! Yavanna help me, never in my life have I met such a reckless, irresponsible, inconsiderate oaf of a person! Well done!”

“Irresponsible?” Thorin asked, face a disapproving if surprise mask of disdain, as if that was the point of the argument that he took issue with!

As if it had never occurred to him that flinging himself at a Warg was even slightly foolish!

“Yes! What on Arda was going through that thick skull of yours?” Bilbo asked, jumping to his feet, and scowling as Thorin moved to help him catch his balance. If he would stop being so insufferably noble for even a moment, Bilbo might manage to stay angry with him for once! “What, did you think you’d just get yourself torn to pieces and be done with it? What about the rest of us, then? What about this Company, this quest? What about the damned dragon, and your bloody mountain?”

He flung his arm out vaguely East, desperately trying to remind Thorin of why he was there. Why they were all there. Why Bilbo had left his home, his people, his comfort for some dreadful quest to a mythical mountain and a home to people he, quite frankly, had nothing at all to do with.

Thorin had all but flung himself to his death back there, and Bilbo could not understand why.

Not after coming so far. Not when they still had so much farther to go.

“What about Fíli and Kíli, then? What do you think they would have done, seeing their Uncle torn apart by wargs? What about – what about- “

(_What about me?_ He did not say. The thought struck him as terribly selfish, too close to heartache for comfort, and he buried it as soon as he thought it.)

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said, standing to face him, and Bilbo was all at once annoyed by the sureness of his movements, the careful blankness to his face, even torn to ribbons as he was, “Master Baggins, calm down.”

“I will not calm down!” He found himself shouting, absolutely done with being talked down to by this – this lout of a dwarf. “I’m sick to death of trying to calm down! I have been chased and nearly murdered by orcs, and wargs, and worse things yet. I have been belittled by dwarrow and elves, and – and bloody birds, for Yavanna’s sake! I’ve ran, and I’ve fought, and I – Thorin, I’ve killed things!” And it was terrible and wrong, and went against every fiber of his being, but he had done it, just as much for his own survival as he had for theirs. “I’ve starved and I’ve bled, and I didn’t do it just to watch you throw yourself at a warg when the mood strikes you!”

Bilbo had not thought that anyone would die on this quest, not really.

Save perhaps for himself. He had imagined he would meet some embarrassing and useless end or else manage to survive at least until the dragon managed to charr his bones.

It had not occurred to him that any of the rest of the Company would be just as fallible as he. After all, they were older and world wise. Warriors or merchants or scholars – any number of useful and knowledgeable things. They had lived longer and harder lives than he and he had not thought they would ever fall to a needless death – certainly not before he did.

There had not been a moment in all these months in which he had thought that of any of them, Thorin would be the first to fall. The thought had seemed unnatural – as unlikely as the sun going out or the sea drying up.

And yet it had very nearly come to pass, and the memory of it tore all the air from Bilbo’s lungs. The ground seemed unsteady below him, and he wanted to attribute it to his exhaustion, his head wound, or adrenaline – but he knew it was all these things and most of all the realization that Thorin was just as mortal as he.

“Master Baggins –” Thorin began, and Bilbo was not going to let him say it, whatever it was, justification or chiding or what have you.

“No! No, I don’t care, whatever it is I don’t care!” He said, stepping into the dwarf’s space, poking a finger into his chest where he knew there was no wound. “I may be a stupid little Hobbit – I may not know a thing about any of this, and frankly I don’t care to! I’d just as soon never have seen an Orc in my life! But now I have, and here I am, and I won’t let you decide to give it all up just – just for some silly old blood feud! I don’t care!”

And he did not.

Whatever reason Thorin may have had for it, for throwing his quest, his responsibility, his _life_ aside, Bilbo did not want to hear it. Didn’t he realize he had people who relied upon him? More than as a leader, but as a person. As an Uncle, a friend, a brother in name if not in blood. Bilbo knew that it was not loyalty to a crown alone that called all of these dwarrow – just as he knew that it was not so for him.

He had no King, and no reason to care for all the fanciful notions that the title suggested, and yet he too chose to follow Thorin.

Didn’t that count for something? Did that mean anything to Thorin?

Was he so eager to throw it all away?

Thorin held his gaze for a moment, something vulnerable and astounded about his face, as if he did not quite know what to do with the wretched thing shouting at him, but had already decided not to throw it away.

(He could have, easily. Bilbo knew now how simple it would be for someone with Thorin’s strength to toss him over the edge of a cliff, knew with a dreadful certainty now what it meant to be so small, so weak, and fragile. He knew what death looked like in another’s eyes.

He also knew, somehow, that for all his rancor and dismissal Thorin had never once had the thought to cause him any harm. He did not think he ever would.)

“You are right,” Thorin said, equally determined and contrite, the lines around his eyes wrinkled and stark in the early morning light, “I should not have lost sight of my goal. It was irresponsible of me – unfitting as the leader of this Company.”

And something about the way he said it – certain and without guile, made Bilbo want to take it back. The self-recrimination in his frown, the regret in his face, brought Bilbo down from the heights of his fury.

“I – well, I didn’t say that – you –” he swallowed, and stepped away from Thorin, thinking then of the nearness of him, what a mess he must look, and wishing not for the first time for his kerchief, “you are a good leader, Thorin. When you’re not being insufferable.” He was. He really was, and Bilbo wondered how Thorin could not see that for himself. “I – I’m sorry for yelling at you. You’re hurt, and you must be tired, and I should have saved it for later. Not that you didn’t deserve it, mind you.”

And he did deserve it. Just because Bilbo’s temper had abated did not mean that Thorin was not still in the wrong. Bilbo was still annoyed, still on edge about the entire thing – the Goblins and the Dark, Riddles and Wargs, Fire and the barest brush of death. He doubted his temper would truly fade for a long while yet, even with Thorin’s seemingly softening opinion of him.

(Privately Bilbo wondered to himself how much of that change in character could be attributed to the thorough thrashing the dwarf had just received. Thick skull or not even a dwarf ought to be shaken up by such things.)

Still, he self-consciously rubbed at the tear tracks he had hardly noticed in his anger. He had always been an angry crier, much to his embarrassment. To his credit, it had taught to him to be levelheaded in confrontation. He had learned at an early age to curb his temper – he could hardly be caught weeping in fury every time Lobelia Bracegirdle swanned through Hobbiton. His calm anger had come to make him quite the vicious enemy in any argument, and he rarely allowed himself to be so worked up as to cry anymore.

He had not done so in decades. He was entirely willing to attribute it to a symptom of his concussion, as opposed to any power of pigheaded dwarrow.

“My sister,” Thorin began, smiling gently in that way he had when he embraced Bilbo before, soft and bright and so full of gentle emotion it made Bilbo itch and want to turn away, “often says it does me well to be scolded every now and again.” He stepped forward then, a heavy hand coming to rest on Bilbo’s shoulder and he nearly gasped at the weight of it, the way it enveloped his shoulder and the cool weight of his rings, “and I’m afraid that Balin doesn’t manage to work up a fury quite the way she does.”

“And I’m to take it that I do?” Bilbo said before he could think better of it. He had not attempted such banter with Thorin since their conversation so long ago in Rivendell, and then he suspected Thorin had only taken it so well as to make amends for his perceived wrongdoing.

Thorin always seemed to think he had made some grievous mistake when he spoke to Bilbo like this. He wondered if he would ever find a happy occasion to smile at him. He was loath to think they would continue this way; hesitant laughter and nervous smiles that melted back into frosty silence marked with bitter words before the sun fully rose.

“Well enough, Master Baggins,” Thorin allowed, smiling truly now as Bilbo huffed out a surprised laugh. He had not hoped to see Thorin tease anyone – certainly not him. He was hardly the jolly type and Bilbo had privately thought it a wonder his grimness had not been passed onto his nephews. It was no surprise that he had not realized their blood ties until so late after their meeting – Thorin hardly seemed of the same species as his heirs some days.

Now though, with his heavy brows quirked in a teasing manner and his sapphire eyes lit with careful mirth, Bilbo thought it was a wonder he had missed the relation at all. He looked so like Kíli then that Bilbo wondered if he was often mistaken as his father. But Thorin’s eyes were deep and still in a way that Kíli’s could never be – endless like a lake of the clearest blue, dangerous even when lit with the glint of the spring sun.

Bilbo had often been warned away from playing near the water. He was no Brandybuck, and the water would not be kind if he had reached for it, no matter its stillness.

“We ought to get some rest, now, before we continue on.” Thorin said it gently, as though he loathed to say it at all, and Bilbo found that he wished he hadn’t either. He feared then that the genial ease they had found would fade away when next he woke, a trick of the mist, a fleeting lapse of mind from a weary King. Slip away like it had so many nights ago on Elven balconies, and with nothing to show for it but an ache for something that was never his to begin with.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he agreed anyway, chiding himself that he needed the rest – they both did – and it wouldn’t do to resist like a faunt who fought off sleep, “the sooner we rest the sooner we can take our leave and get to somewhere Master Óin can properly treat those wounds of yours.”

“And yours.” Thorin replied, quick as a whip, though he frowned terribly when Bilbo tried to wave away his concern.

Really it was only some scrapes, a few splinters, and a knock to the head. It hardly seemed much when compared to the mess that riddled Thorin’s chest.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said, voice stern and regal once more, and Bilbo was surprised at the fire in his eyes, “I will not have any member of my company fall to illness. Certainly not when it is preventable.”

And well. He was not quite sure what to say to that. He mused then on the stubbornness of dwarrow and their penchant for saying things to fluster him without a thought.

“Oh? So, I’m a member of your Company, now, am I?” He asked, putting his hands on his hips, annoyance flaring at the nerve of this dwarf, “And here I’ve followed you across half a continent on the assumption that I was a burden and no more.”

And maybe he should have held his tongue. Perhaps it would have been wise to preserve what little peace he could hold to between them. But he was at least half a Took and by the Lady of Blossoms no Took had ever left well enough alone. He had gone long enough feeling the bite of Thorin’s dismissal – and more than once allowed himself the hubris of thinking the dwarf might pay enough heed to hate him. He felt he deserved some acknowledgement, now that Thorin had seen fit to change his opinion so drastically. And for what? A few pokes to a mangy Warg or two and a flailing front against some Orcs. If Bilbo had known that was all it took, he might have tried it beforehand. Then again, he thought, clenching his aching hands, maybe not.

Thorin, for his part, blinked at him in surprise, frown deepening though his brows rose in alarm. He opened his mouth once or twice, struggling it seemed to find a proper answer to the accusation, and some cruel part of Bilbo enjoyed seeing the normally infallible dwarf flounder. Eventually his scowl deepened, stern brow wrinkling in consternation, even as his fist clenched, and his head bowed slightly beneath his own unhappiness. Bilbo worried that his face would become stuck like that if he kept it up – if it had not begun to already with all the frowning he did.

“And as I have said, I was wrong in that.” Thorin said, and by his tone a lesser dwarf would have murmured for all the shame in the saying of it. But Thorin was no low dwarf and he spoke clearly, head held high as though he was making some proclamation. As if it was some grand speech of import, as if it ought to be witnessed, and noted and remembered.

Bilbo had never heard him admit to being wrong. Not once in all these months, not in a judgement like that. Not in something so personal and so final. _‘I was wrong’_, he said and to Bilbo it sounded as clear as the unspoken _‘forgive m_e_’._

Forgiveness that Bilbo had never thought to withhold, as in truth it had been Thorin’s since first he had done anything to cause Bilbo harm. He had always known Thorin to be a good dwarf. He had never found it within himself to hold his personal distaste for Bilbo against him. He had only thought it a difference in temperament, an unfortunate mismatch of humors. As two herbs that should never have been planted in the same bed, for the way they both stunted the growth of the other.

But now, with the gentle searching gaze Thorin was favoring him with, he thought that he might have been terribly wrong in that thought. Some plants, he knew, only needed the right conditions, the perfect soil, and the careful touch of attentive hands, to grow together – some that would otherwise kill each other would then even flourish.

Something about the thought made him giddy and embarrassed, hands finding his braces nervously beneath his coat. He found it terribly difficult just then to meet Thorin’s eyes, though he wanted to. Truly, he wanted to, if only to hold onto the softness about his stony face.

“Ah, yes well –“ he said, and he forced himself to say nothing of his thoughts, of his questions, no mention of ‘well, why now’ or ‘why at all’, “Well, thank you.”

He stared at his feet, and could not help but glance up at Thorin, only to find him smiling something wicked and boyish. The sight brought Bilbo’s flush high in his face just as it flared his temper. What a trick that was! A grown dwarf lord looking like a tween teasing his mates. Never mind how it softened the worry lines that Bilbo had not even known were there. Never mind how it made something hot and giddy shiver through him down to his toes.

“Well. Well! Off with me, I suppose, for – for rest, and all that.” He had to put some distance between them, lest he do something foolish or else combust on the spot. “Have to see what Bombur’s done with that rabbit. It’s not proper for a Hobbit to skip breakfast you know!” He turned on his heel, muttering about roasts all while he pretended not to hear the roll of deep chuckling behind him.

Bombur had indeed finished preparing what meager meal could be made of their rations, and Bilbo was relieved to fall upon it at last. A meal was never out of place for a hobbit, and certainly never with one half as flustered as Bilbo. He had always found a good snack or cup of tea worked wonders to calm his nerves – and never before had his nerves needed such soothing.

It had been a dreadful long night. He allowed himself to be swallowed up in the warm welcome of the Ur family with some relief. Here, he did not have to think. He did not have to worry about every word or action, he did not have to carefully read stony faces. He did not have to ponder if his next action would be the one to break the illusion of calm. Not amidst friends where warmth and fellowship were given to him freely. He allowed his thoughts to drift away with the rumble of their voices and once more found himself breathless with relief to have them all in one piece.

He had long counted them as his friends and, he hoped, he was counted among theirs. Them and the Princes and now he felt he could claim some friendship with even the brothers ‘Ri. It was odd to him, who had ever been used to a sea of smiling faces and hardly a true friend among them. Hobbiton was full of genial Hobbits who would wish him well but offer no true warmth.

He was too odd. He read too much and walked too far. He mused on strange things; strange words and peoples, old names, and stories from before the Settling. He was too wild in his youth, and too reserved in his maturity, and they did not trust either of these things but as to be a mask for the other.

The only Hobbits who could abide it lived too far to offer any but the occasional visit, or else were of too different a standing to feel comfortable trying. Indeed, he had many tenants that lived on lands he owned, and he had sought to be good and fair to them, as his father and grandfather before him. They were good folk, he had found, honest and loyal and they seemed to be fonder of him than even some of his own kin. But still he was their Landlord and this put too much a distance between them – they would never feel easy enough to join him for tea even if he had offered, and he did not wish to put them in such an uncomfortable situation as to turn him down.

Things were different here.

Here, he was odd, but it was not the notion that there was anything wrong with him, per say, in as much as he was a Hobbit and must therefore be odd or else not be a Hobbit at all. He was a novelty and not an outcast, and it was less about his person and more about his people. Here, he was of a different standing, but it hardly made a difference when Princes shared the stew pot with thieves and miners.

Here, he could tell his stories, and no one would shush him or ask him to tell something tamer. Here, he could muse on odd tongues and strange maps and Balin or Óin or Gandalf would hum and nod along and say something strange and fantastic. Here, he could frown and grouse and kick at the Company and no one would do more than laugh at his temper. He did not have to walk the fine line of polite interest and careful distance; he could be as invested in their business as he liked and at most, they would tell him to shove off and mind his own. There were no double entendr or thinly veiled insults.

Here he could simply – be.

He did not know when he allowed himself to grow so comfortable in this Company. He did not know which moment in the long trail left behind them signaled the beginning of his acceptance into the fold. He only knew that in April he had mistrusted and resented them and now he felt himself slipping away to sleep on Bofur’s shoulder in the cool breeze of late Summer.

How many months had it been since he had signed himself to the service of Thorin Oakenshield?

And only now, here, atop these peaks on the tail of the longest night of horrors he had ever dreamed, was Bilbo named a member of this company.

Bilbo Baggins of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.

He found himself smiling at the thought as the voices of the Company lulled him to sleep.

He slept curled up on the cold rock, head cushioned on the scraps of someone else’s coat, much cleaner than his. He rested more soundly on that aerie than he ever had done on his featherbed in his own little hole at home. But all night he dreamt of his own Smial, golden and warm in late Summer sun. A lilac breeze moved about his mother’s curtains and fauntling’s laughter rippled down the lane. Still, he was restless and wandered in his sleep through all the different rooms, murky and soft with dream-haze, looking for something that he could not find nor remember what it looked like.

And so, it was that when he woke with the early sun in his eyes, he went to go look at the time and put on his kettle only to find that he was not home at all. And all at once he conjured up the heartache he had not managed to in his dreams – for he wished dearly then for a wash and a brush, and clothes that were clean and soft once more. He wondered at the absurdity of it, that he should spend so much time swinging between contentment and heartache over the same circumstance.

In his dreams he ached for something he could not name, and in waking he ached for things nameable and yet just as impossible.

He sat down on the same log as he had the night before, listening to the bustle of dwarrow as he watched the sun refract off of the aerie’s mists. It was lovely, he thought, and quite beyond anything he had thought to ever see. He wondered if in a years’ time he would ache for the sight just as he did for a golden Shire sunrise.

“Eat yet?” Came a voice from behind him, and it nearly startled him right off of his seat. Turning, he found Dwalin standing behind him, eyes shrewd and assessing.

Bilbo had never known quite what to make of Dwalin. He was an odd dwarf; regal like Thorin but without the sharp edge of elegance. He was as crude as Bofur on a bad day but still carried an air of moral superiority that dared someone to chide him for it. Frankly, he was one of the most intimidating people Bilbo had ever met.

Still, he had decent manners – for a dwarf. He had complimented Bilbo’s cooking, and no one could really be bad at heart of they appreciated a well-made scone. He looked after Fíli and Kíli as best as he was able, in the manner of a disapproving Uncle. And he was ever Thorin’s shadow, loyal and stolid, though never one to be silent when he felt it necessary. And Nori seemed to like him more than well enough. He had saved Bilbo’s life more than once, though he had ever made it seem part and parcel of his duty. Bilbo had never really spoken to him, but he had always thought he would have done the same for any member of the Company. He was not a bad sort Bilbo knew, but he could not claim to have a proper idea of his character.

“Pardon?” He asked, on instinct more than thought, and he could not help but grow alarmed at the annoyed look he was given in return.

“Did ya eat yet?” Dwalin asked again, slowly, clearly put upon to have to repeat himself. Bilbo got the impression that he was not in the habit of saying anything more than once.

“Ah, no, not yet, actually,” Bilbo replied, just realizing it himself. He had gotten so used to skipping breakfasts that he had not given any thought to it.

This seemed to be the incorrect answer though, as Dwalin only frowned deeply at him for a moment, eyes narrow and assessing. He growled something under his breath that Bilbo did not catch, rolling his massive shoulders as he did, and Bilbo tried not to be distracted by the glint of the massive axes on his back.

All at once the dwarf turned on his heel and marched off toward the bustling dwarrow at their backs. Bilbo had not a clue what they were fussing over. They hadn’t enough supplies between them to make or break camp, and inventory would do them no good up in an Eagle’s nest with no hope to restock on anything at all. Dwalin seemed to corner poor Bombur and Bilbo rose to his feet nervously – the last thing he wanted was to somehow cause trouble for his friend.

Except Dwalin seemed to speak calmly and Bombur simply shook his head and cast a surprised look over to Bilbo before shaking his head again, this time rather mournfully. The large dwarf said something else before turning back to whatever he had been fussing with and handing a bundle to Dwalin. Dwalin nodded and clapped him harshly on the shoulder before turning back toward Bilbo, at which point he hastily sat back down and pretended to not have been watching them at all.

“Here,” Dwalin said when he came to stand beside the log. Looking up, Bilbo was surprised to see that the bundle was filled with bits of cold mutton and rabbit – leftovers from the night before that they had been preparing to take with them, it seemed, “ya need to be eatin’. Cannae have ya droppin’ on the road. Mahal knows we’d never hear the end of it.”

“Oh! I, er, thank you, I suppose,” He said, jumping to his feet and taking the offered meal awkwardly. He did not quite understand why Dwalin was taking a sudden interest in him, but he was reasonably sure that Óin must have made some fuss about the state of him and the poor dwarf was already tired of hearing about it. “Sorry for the trouble,” he added absently, rather embarrassed about the whole mess but too engrossed in the sudden hunger gnawing at him to properly address it.

Dwalin snorted, a mocking smirk tugging at his face as he glanced back toward the bustling Company. Bilbo followed his gaze curiously to see Thorin barking orders at the others, sending them scurrying to and fro, even as Óin hovered about him like a concerned fly.

“Just try n’ take care of yourself,” he said, shaking his head in annoyance, though Bilbo was quite sure it wasn’t directed at him, “or it won’t be you makin’ the trouble.” He reached out to pat Bilbo roughly on the back and the force and suddenness of it nearly made him choke on his mouthful. He coughed and waved at the Dwarf in an approximation of grateful acknowledgment that he never would have attempted in the Shire. Dwalin did not seem to mind, as he simply barked out a laugh and turned to make his way back to his King, hollering something about opening wounds barely closed.

All too soon, it seemed, it was time to leave. Whatever nonsense the Company had been up to had been sufficiently tidied up and now they were being ushered onto the backs of the Great Eagles once more.

Carefully, he approached his appointed partner – for he was careful not to imply in any way that these creatures were simple transportation or ferrymen – and sketched a rather awkward bow. What else was he to do with no hand to shake?

“Well, uh, Good Morning to you,” he said, feeling rather a fool, though the glint in the eagle’s yellow eyes made him feel much more like a mouse, “I am Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The Eagle clicked softly as it stared at him, massive head tilting to the side in a distinctly bird-like motion as it did. He felt eyes on him and tried to let the knowledge that the Company was behind him bring him comfort.

“Well met, then, Bag-en,” spoke the bird at last, though its voice was rather less smooth than its Lord’s had been, and stumbled and clicked oddly across the syllables, “I am called Gwaeval[ii]. Come, climb up, and I will see you safely below.”

Nervously he did, thankful as the bird lowered itself to the ground to assist him, though he still had a rather difficult time. What else was to be expected? He had a difficult enough time mounting a pony and this Eagle was more than double the size of poor Myrtle. Still, he managed with only few hasty apologies as he accidentally pulled at feathers on his way up.

“Settle yourself well, we will be off soon enough,” Gwaeval said and Bilbo supposed it was meant to be reassuring. Still the distance below him, from his feet to the ground, and from that ground to the earth proper, was daunting and pulled insistently at his thoughts. His head was full of cotton, where he sat clutching at the Eagle’s back, and even the sound of Thorin’s meandering overtures of honor and repayment to the Wind Lord did little to soothe him.

“You – ah, you have a lovely name,” he said, for lack of anything better to say, and desperation to distract himself from his fear, “Elvish roots, yes? Like your Lord.”

Gwaeval preened beneath him, head lifting in pleasure as the bird tilted its head back to better see him.

“Yes! It is translated. We speak the tongue of the First-born best – though we speak your Mannish tongues as well. We instruct our chicks. My yearlings already speak it well.” At this the bird bobbed its head in excitement and Bilbo could not help but smile even as he clutched tightly to their feathers.

“Ah, congratulations, you must be very proud.” He said and was pleased to see the joy in those avian eyes.

“Yes, yes,” Gwaeval said, and the words were barely intelligible from clicking for the joy in them, “they speak well - like my mate, and he speaks best of us all, save Gwaihir. They will learn to fly as well as I, though, if I have any say.”

“I am sure they will be magnificent, indeed,” he agreed, and felt something in him relax at the easy flow of conversation. Who would have thought Bilbo Baggins would ever prattle on about such things with something as fantastic as a giant Eagle. He spared a moment of amusement for the horror and disbelief he would be met with if he ever were to tell such a thing back home.

They continued on in this way for quite a while, as Thorin and the Wind Lord spoke of various important things that Bilbo had no interest in. Thorin could be exceptionally long winded when he felt the occasion called for it, and Bilbo supposed that he had seen some benefit to making allies of the Eagles here. Still, Gwaeval was excellent company and he found that speaking with her of family and the summer going on below eased some of his ever-present tension.

Eventually though, even Thorin’s words ran out and they were sent off with many a called farewell and piercing cry from the Eagles of the Aerie.

Gwaeval had boasted that she was swiftest of her kin, who were in turn swiftest of all of the Eagles of Manwë and kin of Gwaihir besides. He was inclined to believe her, as they took leave of the heights. She was careful to lift off as close to the ground as possible even as he saw her brethren dive straight off the side of the cliffs before catching the wind beneath their wings.

Still, he clenched his fists into her feathers as he felt the air rush over him and closed his eyes tightly against the fear. Peeking one eye open, he saw the sun, still skirting the eastern horizon. The cool morning mists rolled below in the valleys and hollows and twined about the peaks and heights of the hills. The mountains fell away behind them, and he saw the stars twinkling faintly in the softening dark to the west.

As beautiful as it was, the sight caused his stomach to roil, and he clenched his eyes closed and clutched even tighter to his chaperone.

“Don’t pinch!” She chided, and he was surprised to hear her over the roar of the wind, “You need not be frightened like a rabbit, even if you look rather like one. It is a fair morning, Bag-en! What is finer than flying?”

He rather thought that a warm bath and late breakfast on the lawn afterwards would have been a world better than this, but his fear closed up his throat, and stole his words from him. He resorted to simply shaking his head against her back, and burying his face into her feathers, though he was careful to loosen his hold as much as he dared. She clicked something at him in what he was sure was eagle speech, before falling silent.

Eventually, the eagles must have seen their destination and began to circle downward in great spirals. Bilbo allowed himself a moment of relief at this – he had rather feared they would dive straight for the ground and he doubted his heart could take it.

“Bag-en! Open your eyes, little one, the green things call your name! Pay them heed, for they have missed you!” Gwaeval called to him, and he obeyed, opening his eyes reluctantly to find the ground much nearer than before.

Below them trees stretched toward the sun, proud and verdant and he nearly gasped for the way his heart cried out at the sight. Oak and Elm stretched upwards and he imagined if he reached toward them, they would reach back, great boughs welcoming and familiar. Wide grass lands rolled away beyond his sight, though he could feel the miles they stretched as though he had walked them with his own feet. A river bubbled merrily through the fields and though he was hardly water folk even the sight of it lightened his heart.

Cropping out of the ground, right in the path of the stream, stood a great rock, a spear of stone cast from the mountains by some giant among giants. Here the Eagles landed, and set down their passengers with surprising care, before taking once more to the skies to circle round their heads. Gwaeval let him down, though she did not immediately take to wing once more. Instead she nudged him gently when he stumbled, legs weak from fright. Carefully she set him right, watching him until he had his feet beneath him.

“Careful, little rabbit, your kind were not made for the winds,” she chirped at him, as if it had been his idea to go for such a dreadful flight.

Still he found it in him to smile at her gratefully and lay a gentle hand upon her beak, no longer quite as fearful of its sharpness. She preened once more under his touch, as if quite pleased with him for his boldness and at last she took to the skies with a great rush of wind and flutter of feathers.

“Farewell!” Cried the Eagles, great piercing shrieks somehow bent to words, “Wherever you fare, ‘till your aeries receive you at the journey’s end!”

“May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks,” Gandalf answered, in a practiced manner, and Bilbo made a point to remember it. He did not know if he would ever meet the Eagles again, least of all Gwaeval, but he felt he wanted to have at least something to remember them by, even if it was only an odd set of words.

The Eagles cried one final time, before they turned back westward, and behind the heavy clouds. Bilbo took a moment then to breathe the air, tinged with pollen and grass and the smell of river dirt. He had not known that he had missed it, up in the aerie, where every breathe smelt of stars and lightning, and wind from far off places. He could fell the hum of life beneath his feet, and even the whisper of lichen and moss over stone was a balm to his soul. The aerie had been too high for most anything to grow, even what little molds and such he knew found pleasant homes in every crevice of such places.

“Here now, some lucky stairs!” Cried Bofur, ever eager to move on from whatever grand adventure they had just managed to survive, though Bilbo wondered if he was keen to find greener pastures or simply looking for their next disaster.

‘Lucky’, as it turned out was Bofur’s ever genial way of saying ‘suspicious’. Now, Bilbo was no dwarf and even he could tell the steps carved conveniently into the side of this cliff were hardly natural. Still, the steps were old and well worn and they looked safe enough to him. He would let the dwarrow do their own assessment before he made any attempt himself, of course – he trusted their knowledge of these things far more than his own. Though as he watched them dither on about rock formations and erosion and what have you, he felt his patience thinning. He was eager to leave these heights. The sight of the grassland below made him heart sick with longing, and he had to close his eyes briefly against sudden tears.

(How pitiful was he, really? Getting emotional over the sight of some grass? Lady of Blossoms he must be going mad. Or madder, he supposed.)

“Are you alright, Master Baggins?” Spoke Thorin from behind him, and Bilbo blamed his surprise on his concussion. It was unnatural for dwarrow to be able to sneak around at all, and especially if the person they were sneaking around was a Hobbit. Those clod hoppers they wore were lined with steel for Eru’s sake!

“Quite, yes,” he assured, once he had regained his wits, flashing a polite smile at the dwarf, “just the wind in my eyes, I’m sure.”

Thorin frowned at him, though it seemed more considering than suspicious as it had always been. He was quite good at keeping a straight face when he wanted to be, Bilbo had found. It was exceedingly difficult to read what Thorin was thinking at any point in time, and especially when he did not want you to be able to. Still, the faintest movements about his eyes and the tension in jaw were slowly beginning to become familiar enough to Bilbo that he could tell there was some thought being worked over quite thoroughly in his mind.

“You need not dissemble. An injury earned in battle is no shameful thing, Master Baggins, and if your head brings you trouble I would have you say as much.” He said it sternly, and if Bilbo had heard it some months ago, he would have thought that he was being chided or else belittled. But now he could see that there was concern behind the words and a guileless truth in them.

In the Shire such notions as honor and blood-feuds, righteous deaths, and oaths of loyalty, were the stuff of fairy stories. A drunken fool might profess his love upon his honor; but it was always half a joke. These things were long lost and far off and unnecessary besides. There was not enough passion in the whole of the Shire for such a thing to mean anything but excess.

Thorin truly walked about the world with such fanciful notions as honor and nobility in his head. Bilbo could not imagine anyone else saying those things and not being embarrassed for their sake, but Thorin had ever spoke his beliefs so plainly it was impossible to scoff at them. Honor and sacrifice and duty. He was a King in more than title, because to him it _was_ more than a title. It was everything he believed in, the life he had lived, the person he had been and would be again.

How awfully romantic this dwarf had turned out to be.

“Well, how fortunate for us both that my poor head is causing me no trouble at all,” he said, and he could not help the teasing grin that came to him then, or the swell of hopeless affection that rushed in his heart, “I assure you, Master Dwarf, that I’ll throw a proper fit if I am even slightly inconvenienced by it. A real tea-parlor snit, Sackville style.” He had not meant to take his teasing so far, but the startled smile that crawled its away across Thorin’s face was enough to egg him on.

“So, you shall,” Thorin said, eyes alight with a rare mirth that only caused Bilbo to grin all the wider, “as is your due, Master Hobbit.” He obviously meant it as an insult – a play on the long months of derision between them; Bilbo’s fussiness and Thorin’s rugged expectations. Somehow it did not offend him as it once had. Somehow, as he thought back to the fuss he had raised – over kerchiefs, and lack of bathing, and breakfasts, and teatime, and any number of things – Bilbo could not find anything in him but embarrassment and a strange humor.

What a silly thing he had been. Had it only been a season?

“Quite right!” He said lightly, slipping past Thorin with a pat to his arm as he went, “Now that we’ve settled my right to a daily fit, I think we ought to be going on, don’t you?”

He did not turn to see if the dwarf would follow, though sure enough the sound of steel capped boots shadowed his steps. With a smile he could hardly justify to himself, he approached the dwarrow still assessing the stone and put on his most disapproving frown.

“Come now, whatever is the matter? Are we going down, or aren’t we?” He said, and he was pleased to see that his waspishness was met with no more than fond exasperation. Truly, dwarrow were something of a delight in such things and he best be careful not to be spoiled by them else he would return to the shire the rudest Hobbit that ever breathed.

“They seem solid enough, though I’ll ask ya to be careful all the same,” Bofur spoke up and the murmurs of agreement from the others were far too serious for Bilbo to bear. It was only stone, after all, and hardly such a great a height as those they’d just left behind.

Slowly, they managed to make it down the steps with no trouble, though Bilbo feared he might slip at any moment and tumble right off the side. As you know, stone which lays long near water is prone to grow slippery and rife with slimy, unpleasant things, and even Hobbit feet must find some trouble on such perilous stairs. It was with great relief that they reached the bottom and found themselves sheltered in a wholesome little cave floored with round river stone.

The river bubbled along merrily around them and they were lucky indeed to find a ford of huge flat stones leading across and into the grasslands. And while Bilbo knew the water was shallow and the pasture only just ahead, he found himself hesitant to cross the stream all the same.

(While it was true that a fear of heights was his burden alone, the fear of water was something he had been taught young and was thus in some ways more difficult to overcome.)

“What’s the matter, Bilbo?” Kíli asked from over his shoulder, and Bilbo was rather proud of himself for not flinching away as the dwarf nearly knocked him over from behind.

“Its only a little river,” Fíli chimed from his other side, and Bilbo found himself equal parts annoyed and grateful for their nosiness. It was difficult to dwell on one’s fears when you had insolent tweens hanging off of your shoulders.

Still the river gurgled and the thought of crossing it was daunting, though he knew he would do so anyway.

“Leave him be,” came Thorin’s voice, unmistakably chiding this time, and all at once the weight on his shoulders lifted as Thorin grabbed his nephews by their collars, “you know better than to burden the injured.”

“Thorin! It’s his hands that he hurt, not his feet!” Kíli cried, as he wriggled around in his Uncle’s grasp, a truly petulant pout about his face even as his brother slumped obediently in Thorin’s other hand.

“He’s right, you know. I think I can carry the weight of these fools, well enough.” Bilbo could not help but laugh at their antics even as he came to their defense.

Thorin frowned at him, and Bilbo was once again struck by how similar he could look to Kíli. Certainly, Thorin did not pout as his nephew did but there was something indignant and at once pleading about his eyes that spoke to an emotion terribly similar but well hidden. Bilbo was careful to hide his own delight and baffled amusement.

(It seemed that aside from deciding that he did not hate Bilbo after all, Thorin had let some of his frosty indifference slip from his demeaner. Bilbo was not sad to see it go; certainly not if Thorin proved to be half so interesting a dwarf as he seemed to be.)

“Really, I don’t mind.” He waved a hand airily, even as he turned a distrustful glance to the water once more. “They were only concerned, I’m sure – I’m not terribly fond of the water. Most Hobbits aren’t.”

“Why not? You’ve got enough little rivers and ponds; I’d think you’d all like a good swim.” Fíli mused even as he subtly attempted to tug away from the grip at his collar. Thorin cast him an annoyed look, before focusing once more on Bilbo, as if he too were interested in the answer. Bilbo could not imagine what for.

“You like baths well enough, I’d think you’d spend every minute you were able in a tub!” Kíli seemed rather pleased with himself at the jest, even as Thorin grunted something unintelligible and shook him about slightly.

Bilbo snorted rather rudely at the insult – though what kind of insult cleanliness was he could not fathom. Still, it would not due to cause the Company to worry about him more than necessary. It was only a little river. Hardly anything dangerous, if he kept to the ford, and was mindful of his step. The danger of an icy spring current had passed, and the pull was gentle enough that lilies and water grasses were clustered about the shores. Nothing he could not manage. His nerves were only a little frazzled by all the excitement and the dreadful heights.

“Well,” he hummed, shaking himself slightly, and turning a weak smile to the trio, “let us just say I am no Brandybuck and leave it at that, hm? Now, what are we doing standing about? We’re no better at the bottom of a rock than we were atop it.”

“No, but I suggest you make use of the clean water while you can. It will be long before you have such another chance on the road ahead of you all.” Gandalf spoke from the back of the group, though his gaze was distant and cast far from their little party.

“’You’?” Repeated Balin, squinting suspiciously at the wizard, “You speak as though you will not be joining us.”

Gandalf turned then to gaze at the dwarf in faint surprise, as though he had not thought that he would be questioned at all.

“I always meant to see you all safe over the mountains, and now by good management and good luck, I have done it.” He turned then as he spoke of luck to stare rather pointedly at Bilbo, and he felt rather embarrassed at the lack of tact in the Old Man before he carried on. “Indeed, we are now a good deal further east than I ever meant to come with you, for after all this is not my adventure.”

Several barks of argument resounded from the assembled Company, none more so than Bilbo who rather felt that it was Gandalf’s adventure as much as it was his. It was after all Gandalf who had brought the entire thing down on his head. But Gandalf struck his staff harshly against the stone and cast one of his terrible dark glares about, and they all fell silent, though they were no less angry or confused than before.

“I may look in on you again before you are through, but in the meanwhile I have pressing business to attend to.” He sounded grave indeed as he said it, though the glance that he cast at Bilbo as the dwarrow fell to grumbling made the severity of his meaning clear enough. It was the same look he had hid well from the others when it had come across him at the mention of the Necromancer.

Bilbo had nearly forgotten about the incident which seemed so long ago now. Perhaps, he had wanted to do so – after all, what business did a Hobbit have with such things? Such evils were terribly large for such a little person as he was.

Gandalf seemed to disagree, for even as he made to hide his worries from the others, he looked to Bilbo in commiseration and the dreadful knowledge that Bilbo knew the gravity of his distraction. And while Bilbo knew very well that it was wisest for the wizard to heed the looming shadow, he still felt bereft at the thought.

Gandalf alone had been his solace on this path; the only one among the Company with even the faintest notion of Bilbo or his people. He knew the difficulties that Bilbo would face and had ever comforted him and supported him through them when he saw the need. When none among the Company would so much as speak to him, Gandalf had been at his side. When he missed the Shire and her people, it had been Gandalf to nod along and share in his reminiscence.

He had begun to think Gandalf was going to come all the way and would be there to help through whatever difficulties they may have stumbled into. Certainly, they would not have survived the terrors they had already faced if not for him. By the furious looks on the faces of the others, Bilbo began to understand that it was not him alone who had thought these things. Even as the dwarrow sought to cover their fear with rage, Bilbo felt tears spring to his eyes.

It was not only that he was afraid; it was the terrible realization that he would be able to do nothing.

He could not hope to keep the Company safe and neither could he dare to think on the dangers toward which his old friend would travel alone. He had left the Shire at Gandalf’s behest but now it seemed that he would likely never see him again. How strange and dreadful a thing it was to think that he would not be able to look after his mother’s friend as he had promised her he would – and even stranger that he had, unbeknownst to himself, thought that he would be able to in the first place.

He was only a Hobbit, after all.

He could not tell the others, he realized. They could not know about the evil to which Gandalf went, lest they be distracted from their own quest. Gandalf had known this, and he suspected this was why Bilbo alone knew the whole of it – and even then he thought Gandalf would have hid it from him as well had he the choice. Bilbo had never considered himself particularly nosy – certainly not by Hobbit standards, heavens no – but he supposed this was why eavesdropping was never one of his pastimes. Aside from being unconscionably rude, it often led to knowing more about things than he really would like to. Ignorance was bliss, after all, and he knew that he himself would be distracted enough by this for the lot of them.

(But then, perhaps the dwarrow would not care enough for such things to be distracted. They might ignore such great terror except for the fact that Gandalf thought it more pressing than their own troubles. While noble and loyal folk, Bilbo would be lying if he claimed they were not stubborn and selfish, though not nearly to the extent that common gossip had painted them to be. Rather, he thought, long suffering and betrayal had stolen from them the luxury to care for the woes of others to whom they owed nothing. They were not cruel, but neither were they as a rule charitable.)

“I am not going to disappear this very instant,” Gandalf said, wrinkled face softening as he saw how Bilbo had begun to quietly weep, “I can give you a day or two more. Probably, I can help you out of your present plight, and I need a little help myself.” He laid a reassuring hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, and Bilbo gamely dashed at the tears on his face. He had done quite enough crying as of late.

“Nice of you to offer,” Glóin answered, though the sarcasm in his voice was plain to hear. Bilbo could not find it in himself to be bothered by the Company’s sudden hostility. He knew well enough by know that they must be feeling just as abandoned as he, and it chafed more at their pride than their fears. As far as they were concerned Gandalf was going back on his word, though Bilbo could not rightly remember if he had ever agreed to see the whole thing through or not.

“We have no food, and no baggage, and no ponies to ride.” Gandalf sighed in annoyance, even as he turned to stare blandly at the dwarf who had spoken. “And you don’t know where you are.”

Bilbo struggled not to laugh at the plain annoyance on his old face even as Glóin balked at the sad truth of it. Grumbling abounded and more than one goading slap to the back pushed Glóin into an undignified huff. Instead of looking chastised or even hopeful, the dwarrow only seemed to glower all the harder at the Wizard for laying the facts out so plainly.

“Now, I can tell you that.” Gandalf ignored the lot of them except for Thorin, whom he addressed with a deferential nod.

Bilbo was surprised to find the dwarf still so near to him. He had half expected him to have moved off to speak with Balin or Dwalin as was his usual habit when such discussions came around. But he and his heirs stood still at Bilbo’s back, and he tried not to let the fact tickle his pride. Thorin did not respond except to nod in a manner that Bilbo supposed was meant to bid the wizard carry on.

“You are still some miles north of the path which we should have been following if we had not left the mountain pass in a hurry.” He leaned upon his staff heavily then, and Bilbo knew him well enough to expect a lecture. “Very few people live in these parts, unless they have come here since last I was last down this way, which is some years ago. But there is _somebody_ that I know of, who lives not far away. That Somebody made the steps on the great rock – the Carrock I believe he calls it. He does not come here often, certainly not in the daytime, and it is no good waiting for him. In fact, it would be very dangerous. We must go and find him; and if all goes well at our meeting, I think I shall be off and whish you like the eagles ‘farewell wherever you fare.”

At this the dwarrow began their grumbling anew, and Bilbo pretended not to hear the very few insults he could understand. While he for one would never be so crass as to say such things, and certainly not to someone he knew while in their presence, he could not begrudge them their unhappiness.

“Is there nothing we can offer to stay your leave?” Thorin spoke then, and Bilbo was surprised to hear him offer it. Though they had all been promised some gold for their troubles he knew that no dwarrow parted with their gold willingly, and even less so that which had so much blood spilt over it.

Gandalf raised his brows at the offer himself, and the surprise was so unpracticed on his face that it bent all the wrinkles of his skin in new and strange ways. He looked almost old then, instead of ancient. As though the unexpectedness had shaved some centuries off of the unmeasurable stretch of his years.

“We have yet some dragon-gold to spare, as I note none is promised to you in your contract,” Balin cut in, with a glance at Glóin, who was in charge of their sums.

“Aye, and some silver and jewels besides, if coin is below your notice,” Glóin agreed, great red beard swinging with the force of his agreement.

More muttering broke out through the Company, though this time it was more hopeful than angry. Bilbo did not doubt that each of them was urging the other to offer some wealth of his own to entice the Wizard to stay.

(It spoke much to their fear that they were willing to go to such lengths, and Bilbo felt that perhaps he had been optimistic in saying that they might not make it to the mountain. With the fuss the dwarrow were making one would think they might not make it to nightfall.)

“We shall see, we shall see!” Was all Gandalf’s response, though Bilbo had heard the tone enough as a faunt to know it was no better than a very kind denial. “As it is, I think I have earned already some of your dragon-gold – when you have got it.”

And at this the dwarrow gaped at him in affront even as he laughed merrily and crossed the ford alone. It was no trouble to him, with his long legs and solid staff, but Bilbo was less than half his size and rather unsteady on his feet, what with a concussion, and all.

“Regardless of his staying or not, he was quite right about the water,” Balin said, pulling the lot of them from their grumbling, “we all need a bath and to tend to our wounds and beards besides.”

The dwarrow seemed cheered by this and Bilbo thought it was mostly at the thought of tending to their beards. He had come to learn that they were something of a source of pride to a dwarf. They bustled about merrily at the thought, and Bilbo was swept up into someone’s excited embrace before he knew it. And so, they made their way quite easily across the ford with all the jangle and commotion of a troupe of dwarrow and somehow had carried Bilbo across with them before he had even a moment to fear the crossing.

Laying out their heavy coats and arms where they were easily seen and reached if necessary, they began to strip off their filthy layers. Blushing, Bilbo turned away, and though he took off his own jacket and ruin of a waist coat, he would strip no further in such company.

“Come now, Master Burglar,” called someone from the deep of the river, where already a half dozen of them were naked and frolicking, “you can either be clean or prudish, but not both at the same time!”

This threw the Company into a riot of laughter and splashing and more cajoling besides, though Bilbo only huffed and waved them off in favor of beginning to scrub at the filth on his clothes in the shallows. He found a good size river stone and began to go about the washing as gently as he was able. His poor walking jacket had borne far too much for such a simple thing, and he feared it would be naught but scraps by the time he made it back to a proper tailor.

“Baggins!” Came Óin’s call, annoyed and impatient as ever. Looking over to where the old dwarf sat in front of Thorin on a large stone by the shore, Bilbo was all ready to beg the healer to leave him be.

The sight of Thorin sat upon the stone, naked to the waist, and gazing at Bilbo steadily brought him up short. He felt his mouth go dry and his hands stop their determined work.

Thorin was attractive. Bilbo knew this. Had thought as much to himself so many times that it had become a bit of a private joke; that anyone should be able to look so magnificent in the situations they oft found themselves in was ridiculous. Thorin was ridiculous. The blessed dwarf badgered on about honor and slaying dragons and what not, all while fighting off Orcs and looking like a fairy tale. It was ridiculous.

Still, the way the light shone off of his skin, striking it golden in the glow, took his breath away. The way the silver strands glittered like moonlight in his midnight hair, the blue of his eyes, and the stretch of skin over muscle. The thick layer of chub about his middle which Bilbo would bet half his inheritance hid enough muscle to lift a house. The ink standing stark against his skin in careful patterns Bilbo could not hope to understand the meaning in. The whirl of dark hair about his arms and down his chest, the path it trailed to his belt –

Ridiculous.

How on Arda did he walk around looking like that, with no thought given to the poor mortals who had to look upon him? It was not fair. Bilbo was only a Hobbit, you know, and he was not used to denying himself what little pleasures he desired.

Even still, some things were too lofty and grand for him to reach even in dreams.

He looked back to his drowned coat, swallowing thickly even as he clenched it between his hands. He felt a voyeur all of a sudden. Dwarrow were not shy about such things because they did not look at each other in such ways, not in the context they were in now, he knew. It was wrong of him to do so. Public baths were not Hobbittish but neither were they unheard of in cities of Men and Elves. There was nothing improper about such things until one made them improper. He repeated this to himself until his heart had calmed to a normal rhythm in his chest.

“Out of the two of us, I’m the deaf one, not you,” Óin barked, truly annoyed now, and Bilbo blushed to think that the poor old dwarf had had to witness such foolishness, “now get over here and let me see what can be done about those hands of yours!”

Reluctantly, Bilbo climbed to his feet, taking his time wringing the water from his coat before setting it in the sun to dry. It was as clean as it was going to get, he supposed. What he would not give for a washboard and a soapstone. If he had been back home, he would have taken his laundry to Mrs. Deepleaf to be washed and gotten it returned to him in three days’ time smelling of lavender and lemon. Just as he had every week since his mother had put him in charge of the laundry. No matter what he did he would never be able to get the smell of Mrs. Deepleaf’s soap into his coat, not out here, and he mourned the fact desperately for all of a moment.

Huffing at his foolishness, he turned and trudged his way to the old healer, his head ducked all the while. He gathered what courage he could and raised his head as he arrived, crossing his arms in a petulant sort of way as he looked at Óin expectantly. Thorin was staring at the river rather intently and Bilbo flushed at the thought that he had made him uncomfortable with his staring. How dreadful, and here he had only begun to be tolerated!

“Sit down and remove your bandages for me,” Óin said, old eyes amused at Bilbo’s impertinence even as he turned back toward Thorin, “I’ve just got to finish up with this one and I’ll be right with ya.”

He raised a wad of cloth, wet and mashed in what – to Bilbo’s nose – smelled to be a rather spiced poultice. Gently he dabbed it on the edges of Thorin’s wounds, which were raw and pink, clearly freshly washed, though the larger gashes had been closed with neat little stitches. Bilbo did not know where Óin had found either needle or thread, but he was glad indeed to see that something at last had been done.

“Is that Turmeric?” He asked absently, even as he picked apart the knots in his bandages, carefully unwrapping the blue cloth, and noting that he ought to wash it as well while he had the chance.

“Tarmaret?[iii]” Óin asked, carrying on before Bilbo had the chance to correct him, “Aye, it’s good stuff for keeping infection at bay, and it’ll close the wound up all the quicker. Not too bad in a soup either, or so Bombur tells me. Lucky, he had some stashed on him where the Goblins weren’t like to find it. Wish he’d o’ kept some limestone powder up there with it, but I’ve never been much for luck myself, Mahal help me.”

“I had heard that, yes,” Bilbo agreed, though what the rest of Óin meant about limestone and luck he hadn’t a clue, “though it’s a bit hard to come by for most Hobbits to bother using it for such things. Much easier to find garlic or honey and press that over a wound.”

“You have experience in healing, then, Master Baggins?” Thorin asked, voice sudden in the silence he had been keeping, though he kept Bilbo’s gaze well enough when he looked up to meet it.

“Oh, no, not as such, really,” he hurried to say, eager to be rid of the appraising look in Óin’s eye, “only as much as your average Hobbit, I’m afraid. I know rather a bit more about the uses of herbs and spices in the kitchen than in the sick room.” He laughed awkwardly at his own joke, and Óin hummed in acceptance as he moved back to tend Thorin’s wounds.

“You are a cook, then?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo spared a moment to wonder at his insistence on this point.

“Ah, no, not professionally,” he said, and felt rather embarrassed to say it in front of such accomplished company, “though I’ve been told I’d earn more than a decent living at it if I wanted to.”

Not cooking for Hobbits of course, but maybe for Men in Bree, or for the Inn or pub. Not that he ever would. As a gentle-hobbit it was unbecoming. Besides all Hobbits were at least competent in a kitchen. They had to be considering the amount and importance of food in their culture, and in truth the thought of a Hobbit who could not cook was laughable. Bilbo had always been talented though, even by Shire standards and he was beginning to realize that such a mark was a world above even a fairly decent dwarvish cook.

That was not to say that Bombur was not an exceptional chef. Given the miracles Bilbo had seen him conjure from foraged scraps and water, Bilbo would give his left arm to see what he could do in a proper kitchen. Still, he had been told in no uncertain terms that Bombur would be considered a Master at his craft if there was any Guild left for cooks to earn their Mastery in. Bilbo hadn’t a clue about guilds or masteries, but he knew a Chef when he saw one.

Bombur had on more than one occasion remarked that he was very pleased to find another Master of his trade, though Bilbo had tried to correct him more than once. Hobbits had no masters except for those of their families, and no guilds besides. But Bombur had smiled and said it was no matter, as they would see him a guest at the Masters’ table as soon as the Guild Halls were up and running in Erebor.

Bilbo had stopped and stared for a good while at that. He had not considered that any of them would ask him to stay for any length of time after his contract was fulfilled.

“Then you are a map maker?” Thorin asked, and his regal brow bent with the force of his asking, as though the answer were terribly important. “You have claimed to be fond of them and I saw many in your study.”

“Er, no, I – I am not,” he said, frankly puzzled at the insistence in Thorin’s tone, though he was flattered by the assumption, “again, not professionally, though I have made a few in my time.” As gifts to his father in his youth, or his Grandfather who always delighted in detailing his children’s adventures – small as they seemed now to Bilbo, who had gone farther than even his mother, bravest of any Took that had ever been. Still, the Thain had need of accurate maps, for trade and boundary keeping and Gerontius would have none that was not made by his grandson’s hands. It was more support in such things than any Baggins had ever shown him.

The Baggins’ seemed to think that Bilbo had too many hobbies, and ought to stick to his garden and his kitchen. His father’s sisters always tittered about how difficult it must be for any suitors to catch his eye with him always locked away with his books and his maps or else out for a walk.

“Then what are ya, lad? You’ve made it clear ya ain’t a professional Burglar, though how much o’ that I believe I can’t say,” Óin asked him, casting a disapproving glare at Thorin for his movement.

And Bilbo found himself without an answer.

He was not a burglar – professional of otherwise.

He was not a cook or a gardener, though these things were in his bones. He was not a map-maker or a poet, though he enjoyed these things more than he ought. He was not a scholar or a teacher, despite the fact that he had taught many of his tenants’ children their letters and sums.

He had no profession.

None of his passions or hobbies had ever earned his bread. All of his coin came from inheritance or being a landlord. Even most of the latter wealth he redistributed back into the maintenance of a comfortable life for his tenants or else paying taxes to maintain the roads and the post. He might choose to sell the fruits of his efforts, though he rarely did. Still, he did not need to do so, and that mattered more now than it ever had before.

Bilbo had never felt ashamed of his station in life before, but just now he felt terribly ungrateful and unworthy.

“I – well, I…”

Silence went on for a moment too long, and Bilbo found himself fiddling with his bandages in lieu of answering. What was he to say? He could not very well tell them that he was nothing, that all he was could very well be the same as any Hobbit born as lucky as he.

That he had not worked a day in his life and had never even thought to until he had met these folk. They who had never known anything but work. Who considered it paramount to their culture, even holy.

“He is a Prince!” Came Kíli’s cry from behind him, moments before a heavy weight dropped onto his shoulder, dripping wet and clinging. “Didn’t you know, Thorin?”

“Kíli!” Bilbo cried, trying as best as he could to slip out from the young prince’s hold. “Get off of me – you’re sopping wet!”

“It is not so strange for royalty to put off their mastery in favor of serving their people,” Fíli said, stepping up to them and dropping the edge of his coat which he had used as a make shift bucket to carry water up from the river, and thereby dousing his brother and Bilbo both.

Bilbo shrieked and leapt to his feet, kicking at the both of them, even as Kíli howled in laughter and Fíli danced away with a grin. He huffed and pushed his hair back from his face, trying to see the two hellions through the wetness about his eyes. Only to find them prancing about in nothing but their underthings!

“Lady of the Green!” He cried, aghast at the pair of them, even as they dissolved into more laughter at his shock. “Put on some clothes, you heathens! If not for the sake of my nerves, do it for yourselves! You shall catch a cold, galivanting around all wet and only in your knickers – no, I won’t have it! Get dressed, get dressed!”

“But Bilbo!” Fíli cried, unswayed even as Bilbo pushed at his shoulders heavily. “Our clothes are no drier than we are!”

Frowning at the dwarf, Bilbo looked about and saw the Princes’ clothes in a wet pile beside the shore. Blinking in disbelief he turned back toward the two, who were grinning as if they had done something particularly good and praiseworthy, indeed.

“We saw you cleaning your own things, and we thought we might as well wash ours as well!” Kíli explained, a truly pleased grin in his eye as though it was a truly impressive leap of thought.

“You oughtn’t have any reason to complain of our stench now,” Fíli added for good measure, and Bilbo found himself surprised that they had heeded his complaints at all. Certainly, they had never stopped them from hanging off of him before.

“Well,” he said, rather surprised but pleased besides, “well done, I suppose. Still, my point stands. Go and sit yourselves in the sun to dry or you’ll catch your death. And lay your clothes out while you’re at it or we’ll be here all day!”

The two of them beamed and nodded and gave him a jaunty salute before traipsing off to do as they were told. Bilbo sighed and shook his head even as he could not help but to smile fondly. They were terrible, those two, but they were not truly badly behaved, and even he could admit that they were a balm to his weariness on occasion.

“Oh, aye, another bloody royal, that’s just what we need,” Óin muttered, as though he were not at that very moment knelt before his King and tending his wounds.

Turning back to them, Bilbo was ready to correct the old miser only to be brought up short by the rapt interest in Thorin’s face. The dwarf looked as though he had just been handed an incredibly promising if difficult puzzle.

“You are of Royal Blood, Master Baggins?” He asked, and Bilbo balked at the intensity of his interest. He felt all of a sudden that Thorin might flay him alive for disappointing him. He knew this unlikely, but then the fierceness of those blue eyes was terribly near to both delight and fury.

“Er, no, I – Hobbits do not have royalty, Thorin. I feel I have must have mentioned as much before now,” he was terribly sorry to disappoint, and yet Thorin’s receding intensity did not completely dismiss the point. He seemed then more confused than disappointed. Bilbo was quite surprised at the relief he felt then. He would hate to disappoint Thorin.

“Yet my Sister’s sons have named you Prince,” he said, and it was equal parts statement and question.

“Ah, well, it’s a misunderstanding,” he hurried to assure him, hands picking absently at a splinter though it caused him to wince, “I’ve tried to correct them but you know they never listen to me.”

“Misunderstanding,” Thorin repeated, and that was certainly not a question as much as a statement of disbelief. His face was once again that infuriating mask of blankness that Bilbo could not ever hope to read, and he felt slighted at the sight of it. As if Thorin did not trust him enough to share his thoughts.

(Bilbo knew he had no right to them. Still, they were discussing his family and his business – if anyone should feel the need to be reticent here it ought to be him.)

“Well, yes, Gandalf had told them that my Grandfather holds power of the King,” Bilbo said with a flippant wave of his hand, as if the authority of the Crown meant little, and to him it did. What was the power of a broken crown and an empty throne? Not anything he had ever paid credence too, “which I suppose is true enough, but that does not make him King. Hobbits have no Kings.”

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that there were no Kings among Hobbits, but truly it hardly mattered as no Hobbit had paid homage to any King in so long it was inconsequential.

“Then he is the Steward of the Shire?” Balin said as he approached from behind, and Bilbo was absurdly grateful to see him already shrugging into his long-johns, fresh from the river.

His brother was not so considerate. Dwalin strode past them, naked as the day he was born, carrying his wet clothes toward the patch of sun in which the Princes’ lay. Bilbo quite lost his train of thought, blinded as he was by tattoos and muscle, and water, and the urge to bury his head in the sand and never come out. Green Lady in the West what had he ever done to deserve this? Had he not been charitable enough? Had he poked too much fun at Otho for having the misfortune to fall in love with Lobelia? He would plant three acres of grain himself if she would take mercy on his poor nerves.

“In essence, yes,” Gandalf answered for him, hair dripping as he wrung it out from where he had freshened up at the river’s edge. He had not been captured by Goblins or Trolls as they had, and it seemed that Wizard’s were above producing sweat and oils. “Though the Thain lead the Hobbits long before they ever bowed to any King.”

“Thain?” Thorin echoed, tearing his gaze away from the glare he had aimed at Dwalin’s back, though Bilbo was still too flustered to notice.

“Chief,” Bilbo explained weakly, “chief of chiefs as it were. There were three in the beginning. Now we simply count the family heads, the clans are so intermixed.”

“I had not yet walked among Hobbits in those days, but I had heard there were many differences between the clans, and still some Hobbits show more favor to one of the three though all may share some portion in each.” Gandalf gestured lazily to Bilbo’s hair in example. “Your own looks favor your Father, though your coloring comes from your mother’s blood which is more Fallohidish than most. Such is the same for much of the Thain’s line.”

“It is heredity, then?” Balin asked, genuinely interested as he sat on the rivers bank.

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, though it was reluctant, “my Mother would have been ninth in line, had she not given up the right by marrying my Father.”

“He was of lesser birth than she?” Thorin asked, though Bilbo noted his intensity had returned with enough force that he completely ignored Óin’s prodding at his wounds, as if he was nothing but a fly.

“Well, I suppose so, being that she was the Thain’s daughter,” Bilbo said, though he was frankly a little insulted by the question though he knew Thorin had not meant it so, “though we don’t count such things as reasons not to marry, you know. Love has never cared for social standing overmuch.” He could not help it if his tone was a little short but judging by the surprised look on Thorin’s face his message had come across clear enough.

“She could not be in line for the Thainship and also espoused herself to one of the Family Heads,” Gandalf explained, though he looked rather amused to do so for no reason Bilbo could plainly see, “it would have been quite a problem if by some unfortunate circumstance she had been in the position to inherit both titles.”

“I should think so!” Bilbo said, quite aghast at the thought of his mother taking on both titles and the responsibilities that came attached. “Knowing her she would have done so simply to prove that she could, and then where would we be? No, my Mother was the best of Hobbits, but she would have run the Shire-moot ragged – there wasn’t an inch of compromise in her body.”

“Shire-moot?” Thorin asked, even as he lifted his arm at Óin’s prompting, entirely engrossed in the nuance of Shire politics.

“The Council of Lords, I suppose, as far as Hobbit have such things,” Gandalf said helpfully, though Bilbo scoffed derisively at the simple explanation.

“’Council of Lords’, he says.” Bilbo huffed, rolling his eyes, and turning to set Thorin right on the matter. “As if it isn’t just a seasonal meeting in which the Family Heads trudge up to Michel Delving or the Great Smial to spread gossip and argue about decorations and prizes for the fair or festival or what have you.”

“Come now, dear Bilbo,” Gandalf laughed, “you shouldn’t deride your own position so. The Moot does good work for Hobbits everywhere.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but I think that I would know better than you exactly how much good we get up to considering – as you so kindly pointed out – of the two of us I am the one with an actual seat on the Moot.”

“And do you not discuss trade and the distribution of taxes, and still more at these meetings?”

“Oh, if by ‘discuss’ you mean argue the fine points of decisions that the Mayor has already made without any of our input. Frankly, I don’t know why we bother with the discussion in the first place. It would be much more efficient for the poor Mayor to just inform of us of the changes to be enforced and send us along our way.”

“Mayor?” Thorin asked, though his enthusiasm for the conversation seemed to have waned as Bilbo and the Wizard argued. Still, he was looking at Bilbo with the most curious considering gaze.

“He’s the one who really makes the decisions,” Bilbo explained, huffing, and sitting down once more. If he was going to be explaining such things, he ought to at least be allowed to sit for it, and if his seat was closer to Thorin than before it was only to make room for the others, “the Bounders, the Postal Service, keeping the roads open – he does all the real work. We Heads simply enforce his decisions on our lands. Every seven years we elect a new Mayor at the Lithe Fair to keep things fair and honest. While, I suppose he ought to defer to the Thain, it has been a long time since the Thain has had to decree much of anything at all. It is not as if the Hobbitry-at-Arms has seen much use in the last few hundred years, and I don’t expect it will for a few hundred more.”

“The Thain is your military leader, then?” Thorin asked, and somehow Bilbo had known that would be the part of the speech he would cling to.

“Yes, in as much as we have a military. Which is to say, we hardly have one at all except some angry famers with very sharp pitchforks and a jumped-up Bounder or two.”

“And a well-armed Baggins,” Balin added jovially, and Bilbo blinked at him in surprise. Embarrassingly, he had forgotten that the others were present, so intent was he on Thorin and his curiosity.

“The Baggins, as it were,” Gandalf insisted, and Bilbo realized all at once then that he was up to something, emphasizing the titles as he was.

“So, your Mother was in the line of succession to be Thain before she married your father, who was a Family Head, yes?” Balin asked, and Bilbo nodded absently, though he kept his gaze narrowed on the meddling old coot across from him. Gandalf smiled at him vapidly and Bilbo knew that somehow, he had been playing into the Wizard’s scheme.

“And it was her Father that held the title, yes?” Balin asked and again Bilbo nodded, though now he slid the suspicious gaze to the old dwarf. “And this title was not granted by any King, but by the tradition of your own people – whatever power was later granted the position?”

“I suppose,” Bilbo said, and he feared that he began to see where this was going.

“And you are a Family Head, landed and with a seat upon the Shire-Moot, as your Father was before you?” Balin leaned forward, his stare very intent and Bilbo realized all of a sudden that Óin had stopped his work to stare at him critically.

“Yes.” He said and felt all at once that he would rather have lied for the satisfied grin that slid over Balin’s face.

“Well, then Master Baggins,” he cheered, clapping him on the back as though in congratulations, “by dwarven law you are at the least a Lord and at best a Lesser Prince, as our own Prince’s have said. Though your people claim no such titles, our laws are very clear on these things.”

“Lord Baggins,” Óin snickered, though Bilbo was fairly sure he remembered someone saying that Óin himself was a Lord and he therefore had no right to look so snide.

“Prince of Halflings,” someone snickered from the riverbank, and Bilbo blushed and shot to his feet. Thorin was giving him the strangest stare and he rather thought he ought to get away from it or else combust on the spot.

“I am half of nothing, thank you very much, and no Prince besides!” He turned on his heel then and made excuses about washing his hands before Óin tended them and ran off to the riverbank farthest from damnable dwarrow and their stupid laws.

Prince! He was certainly no Prince and no Lord either! Hobbits did not claim such titles, and even if they had it would be a poor claim indeed. Prince over what? Farm folk and millers. Hobbits did not need such things, nor want such things, and it was a poor Hobbit indeed that thought himself entitled to boss around another.

To hold office was to take on an unfortunate duty for the betterment of ones fellow Hobbits and one that hardly anyone wanted much less took overmuch pride in. The Thain was always a Took because the Tooks were wild and they enjoyed making themselves so uncomfortable – and the rest of the Shire was more than willing to wish them joy of it, when it meant none of them would have to take on the work.

Being a Family Head, for that matter, was a hassle and more often than not it meant very little except that others came to you for advice and such. A Head was wealthy and respected and forced to go to those awful Moot Meetings if only to make sure his tenants and neighbors got a fair say in whatever the Mayor meant to do for the season.

Princes, and Kings, and Lords – these were a world away from humble Shire government. Crowns and castles, fealty, and blood lines of old. Wars and blood feuds, tragedy, and glory. These things were so far away from Bilbo and his home that the mere thought of his friends attempting to sort him neatly among them caused him to panic.

Such things belonged to Thorin, and Fíli and Kíli. To Balin with his scholarly air and Dwalin with his glittering axes. To Óin and his portents and Gloín and his coffers.

Staring into the water, he frowned at the wavering reflection of himself, and thought how even among the common dwarrow – the Ur’s and the Ri’s – he was so different. They at least knew what it was to have a King – to know the weight of the looming Crown, the far reach of the King’s law, whether for good or ill. Bilbo did not know. How could he? What was a King to him but a title and a trinket? An uncomfortable office filled by a reluctant civil servant.

But Thorin was not reluctant. He had never met anyone so confident and steadfast in his life. A King was nothing like what he thought one might be like, and he felt terribly out of his depth here with no frame of reference for that kind of leadership. That kind of strength, and certainty. The respect that seemed to spring from the ground where Thorin walked, as if it were only natural to bow to his will.

Bilbo had never known anything like it. Bilbo could never be anything like that. Perhaps that was why he reacted so terribly to their teasing.

Huffing at his own melodrama, he plunged his hands into the water, scrubbing them roughly against each other, though they stung terribly as he did. Soft red clouds floated away down the river as he irritated the wounds, but it was better to reopen them and clean the filth out then to let them close with such things still trapped beneath the flesh. After a moment he stood and shook them dry, taking a fortifying breath before he turned back to the assembled Company.

To his surprise it was only Óin and Thorin seated upon the rock once again, the old healer carefully finishing up his work, and saying something to his King as he did. Thorin did not seem to be listening as he caught Bilbo’s eye, a dark look on his face that slipped into neutral blankness when he realized Bilbo’s attention.

“We meant no offense, Master Baggins,” Thorn said once Bilbo had sat and Óin had begun to inspect his hands.

Bilbo blinked in surprise at Thorin for a moment before he shook his head ruefully. It seemed that Thorin was ever apologizing to him for some perceived slight or another. He felt badly for him. It was not his fault that Bilbo was so easily upset, and he was quite sure that he did not have to tread so carefully around the rest of the company.

“I am not offended, Thorin, simply embarrassed.” He smiled as best as he could manage at him, though his hands stung as Óin worked and his heart ached for his own failings.

“That was not their intent. Whatever they said was meant in an effort to better understand you and your station.” Thorin frowned in thought as he said this, as if he could not parse out how the insinuation of Bilbo being a Lord of any sort ought to be cause for embarrassment. And why would he? Bilbo did not think he truly understood how terribly simple a creature he was, though he had always despaired of it when they argued. “They only sought to put your situation in dwarvish terms, to better understand it.”

“I suppose that you are right,” Bilbo said with a self-conscious chuckle, as he looked down to watch Óin carefully push out splinters one by one, “still, you must understand, I am only a Hobbit. Such things are quite beyond me.”

Silence reigned for a moment and Bilbo was grateful for it. Just then he felt a headache coming over him and though he was glad to have the company he was quite tired of talking. He would much rather bask in the sun, and the smell of summer grass. Birds called in the trees and the river bubbled along, bringing with it seeds and songs from far off lakes and streams. The dwarrow rumbled away where they dried in the sun a little ways off, and Bilbo was struck with both a strange contentment and melancholy at the peace their laughter brought him.

(This was why he did not want Gandalf to leave. Once he was gone there would be no buffer between Bilbo and the fact that he did not belong with the Company, however much he might wish to.

He was only a Hobbit, you understand.)

“Your mother,” Thorin spoke then, and when Bilbo turned to face him he found that the dwarf seemed just as surprised as he that he had spoken, “You speak of her often.”

“Well, yes,” Bilbo said, marveling at the fact that Thorin had noticed. He had spoken about his family as much as any Hobbit was wont to, though he had not thought Thorin to be paying any attention to whatever noise he made to the others, “She was one of the best Hobbits I’ve ever known – though I may be more than a bit biased, as her only son. She was the eldest of the remarkable daughters of the Old Took – that is the Thain.”

“Three remarkable daughters?” Óin asked and Bilbo felt rather like he’d had this conversation before, though he supposed it was still knew information for these two.

“Well, yes, that’s not to say that his fourth daughter wasn’t wonderful, but well,” her he shrugged rather apologetically, and lent in as if sharing a secret, “Aunt Periwinkle was much younger than any of her sisters and therefore free of their terrible influence. They were all grown and married by the time she got od enough to cause any scandal.”

“Terrible influence?” Thorin repeated, though he seemed equally as impressed with the abundance of daughters in Bilbo’s family, “Did you not say that your mother was the best Hobbit you had ever known?”

Bilbo could not help but to laugh at that. Everyone knew that the remarkableness of the Thain’s daughters was not in their propriety but in their lack thereof. Belladonna, Donnamira, and Mirabella Took had been the scourge of polite society in the Shire since they had been old enough to participate. Most of all because no matter what they did, the wheel of gossip and fashionable trends alike ever revolved around them. They were after all, the three most eligible bachelorettes in the Shire in their time.

“She was, she was!” He said, though he could see that that meant little to the confused Dwarf. “Oh, come now, my mother was a wonderful person, but she was a terrible Hobbit! Making friends with Wizards, Men, and Elves! My word, she must have broken all of her father’s rules in her youth, and half of the Mayor’s in her tweens. She was the only Hobbit to ever travel farther than Bree, you know!”

At this Thorin blinked in surprise as if the notion were strange to him. Then he supposed that dwarven children did not need to rebel so – they were not so bound by the rules of polite society.

“Before you, that is,” Óin interjected, spreading some turmeric mash on his cuts, and bandaging them tightly, “seems you take after her, in that.”

“I suppose,” Bilbo said, though he was not sure that he was too pleased by the thought, “though I’m more Baggins than Took in every other way. Spitting image of my Father, or so I have been told. And before you lot came to my door, I had never done anything nearly as unexpected as she had. I was quite the proper Baggins, you know. Very respectable.”

“And are you not, still?” Thorin asked, shrugging on his undershirt at last, and Bilbo pointedly did not think about the fact.

“After running off with a pack of dwarrow without a word to anyone?” He asked, incredulous that anyone would have to ask at all. No proper Baggins had ever left the Shire. No proper Baggins had ever walked among dwarrow or elves. No proper Baggins had ever had to learn what it meant to follow one named King. “Certainly not. I’ll be lucky to rebuild my reputation by the time the next Mayor is elected.”

Óin frowned up at him for a moment before he cast a pointed look at Thorin. The King had stopped his dressing, staring at Bilbo with a scowl he had not seen since that balcony in Rivendell, when Thorin had thought he had hurt him in some way.

“Lemme know if yer hands start botherin’ ya,” Óin said, and beat a hasty retreat to join those still frolicking in the water. Staring after him, Bilbo rather felt as if he had been abandoned to the wolves – or at the least to a very angry dwarf.

“Your service to the Company would damage your standing in the Shire?” He asked, and the fierceness of it made Bilbo wish he could deny it. He did not see why it would matter. His reputation was of no consequence to Thorin except as a burglar – a field in which he incidentally had no reputation at all. And still he had been hired, on nothing but the word of a mad old Wizard.

(Bilbo had to wonder if Thorin was really that desperate, or if Hobbits were really the only people in Middle-Earth aware of the sheer silliness of the Old Man.)

“Yes,” he said, though at the way Thorin’s expression darkened impossibly further he hurried on, “though it’s really no matter. My seat on the Moot will not be in jeopardy or anything so drastic. Some gossip never hurt anyone, and I rather think that anyone swayed by popular opinion did not care overmuch for me in the first place. Besides, I am sure the Tooks will be delighted. They always despaired of how much of a Baggins I turned out to be.”

Thorin was quite for a moment, then, as if he were thinking over Bilbo’s answer quite carefully, indeed. Bilbo did not know what for. Hobbits would gossip, and he would receive a few less invitations to tea, but he did not think that anyone outside of the Sackville-Baggins’ would be too awful about it. Charitably, he liked to think the people of Hobbiton knew him better than to let one mad adventure outweigh a lifetime of respectability. Uncharitably, he thought they really could not do anything worse than ignore him, and even that would be bad form on their part. Terribly rude, ignoring someone. Better to whisper snidely once they had gone. That, he expected, would spread like wildfire wherever he went after all of this.

“If it is the terms of your employment that will bring you shame I am willing to amend the terminology in your contract,” Thorin said at last, resting his arms against his knees as he thought, “I believe that the Wizard had mentioned the title ‘Treasure Hunter’ might suit better, though we did not pay heed to it back in your Hobbit Hole.”

Bilbo was speechless for a moment. He had learned enough about dwarrow by now to know that they did not simply amend contracts. Each contract was considered both a legal binding and a work of art. Balin and Ori had worked tirelessly at the ridiculous many paged beast he had signed, and truthfully Bilbo had not bothered to read it entirely. Though from what he remembered it had been incredibly detailed, and very formal, and terribly impressive in an almost comic way. Every detail of his time with the company was detailed therein he was sure, and he was rather surprised Balin did not pull it out every time he raised a fuss.

For Thorin to offer a change to it – months after it had already been signed and accepted – was unprecedented. Unbelievable.

Terribly kind.

Bilbo had to force himself not to do anything embarrassing at the thought. He could not very well leap up to hug Thorin when they had only just decided to be civil with one another.

(Regardless of the fact that the dwarf himself had hugged _him_ not a day before.)

“That’s alright,” he found himself saying, voice all soft and watery in the way that he hated, the way it got whenever he agreed with Thorin over something ridiculous simply because he had that soft look about his handsome face, and that hopeful light in his eyes, “the Shire could stand to lose some of its respectability. And I think the Company have become quite fond of calling me Burglar. I’m not entirely certain that all of them know my name, to be quite honest.”

He was not comfortable with losing his respectability, not really. He had worked hard for it, and he felt that in some way by losing it he was bringing shame to his Father’s memory. Bungo had been perfectly respectable, and after his death it was all anyone had expected of Bilbo. After all, if he was going to take on his father’s title, he had better do it justice. Bungo had never done an unrespectable thing in his life. Bilbo could not do anything less. He was The Baggins, after all.

But Bungo had married Belladonna, after all.

That had been unexpected, hadn’t it? No one had thought that stalwart, fastidious, Bungo Baggins would ever agree to marry anyone even slightly less so. Belladonna was eldest of the Old Took’s three remarkable daughters. Belladonna was the only Hobbit to have traveled past Bree. Belladonna had tea with Men and Elves and Wizards. Belladonna proposed to Bungo Baggins at her father’s midsummer-eve party and no one had expected him to say yes. Certainly, no one had expected him to kiss her in front of everyone beneath the party tree.

Bilbo felt that he was entitled to his one act of Tookish fancy. After all, he was Belladonna’s son too, wasn’t he?

“I would not have you suffer any shame on our behalf.” Thorin said, troubled brow creased over the depths of his sapphire eyes, murky with that damnable honor and pride of his. Bilbo felt something strange and unfamiliar come over him at the thought that Thorin was concerned about causing damage to his honor. As if he had any to bring damage to.

“I should be more shamed to have turned away from someone asking my help simply because I was afraid of a little gossip.” He did not know where the courage to say as much had come from, but he had found himself saying and doing terribly courageous things as of late.

Thorin looked at up him in surprise then, troubled thoughts swept away by the force of Bilbo’s little declaration. A faint smile came across his bearded face, and his eyes softened into something that was not searching or hopeful as they were on occasion, but something else – something sweeter and warmer still.

“Then I cannot imagine that you should feel any shame, at all, Master Burglar.”

Bilbo thought on that for a long while. All while they lingered by the river and finished washing clothes and bathing. He was still thinking on it when they began their march through green grasses and down the lines of the wide armed Oaks and tall Elms. Even the whispering voices of the trees, though welcome and appreciated, could not fully keep his mind from it. They told him of the rains of the past season, and the strange rumbles they had felt from the East. They asked if he had been frightened, up there in the winds, with his roots so far from the Earth. If he had wanted to feel the breath of Manwë, he need only climb up to their crowns, and outstretch his arms. They would let him, if he asked.

(He had not realized that he had missed speaking to the trees so.

It was the Elves that had taught the trees to speak, in the beginning, but he did not know if they had taught Hobbits the same language, or if the Lady had done so herself. Bilbo did not remember ever being taught to speak so, but then he had grown up raised as much by the woods of the Shire as her people. He had wondered if all trees would speak the same language or if they would be unintelligible to him this far East.

He was glad that they were not.)

“And why is it called the Carrock?” Bilbo asked Gandalf, eager to take advantage of what little time he had left with the old man. In his youth he had spent hours following him about, asking question after question, each more pointless than the last. Gandalf had been patient with him, and even at times seemed to enjoy it. Something about the ridiculous particulars of childish questions appealed to him, as if there was some great truth in them after all, if only one was wise enough to find it.

Gandalf looked down at him with amusement, turning back to face the great rock where it stood alone, out of place in that river so far from the mountains.

“He calls it the Carrock, because carrock is his word for it. He calls things like that carrocks, and this one is _the_ Carrock because it is the only one near his home and he knows it well.” The wizard said, as if that meant anything at all to Bilbo, who only gained more questions where he had not even really cared for his first.

“Who calls it? Who knows it?” He asked, suddenly regretting asking at all. He would have done better asking Gandalf why the rain fell or why the sky was blue.

“The Somebody I spoke of – a very great person.” Gandalf said with a disapproving look as if he was quite disappointed in Bilbo for not remembering this information that he had not even known. “You must all be very polite when I introduce you. You must be careful not to annoy him. He can be appalling when angered, though he is kind enough humored. Still, I warn you he gets angry easily.”

“How it is you can claim a fellow is kind humored and prone to appalling anger in the same breath, I am sure I don’t understand,” Bilbo said, with his own easily triggered annoyance. Truly, he did not know if it was because he was the only one for miles with any sense or the poor state of his head that caused him to snap so easily, but he found he cared little to find out.

“Hear, hear!” Fíli called, never far from any source of gossip. “Is that the person you are taking us to now?”

“Couldn’t you find someone more easily-tempered?” His brother chimed in, saddling up to their side as if he had any business in the conversation.

“Yes, it certainly is and no, I could not!” Gandalf said crossly, though at the Princes’ foolish questions or their eavesdropping Bilbo could not say.

“Funny that you lot should complain of a difficult temper,” Bilbo said, eager to steer away from the Wizard who seemed much less easy going in recent days, or perhaps it was simply that impertinent dwarvish princelings were enough to test even his nerves, “I would think you accustomed to such things, considering.”

“Considering?” Kíli repeated in confusion, though not a moment later his face cleared with understanding and that ever present glint of mischief returned. “Oh, do you mean our beloved Leader and Uncle?”

“Why, you have yet to truly witness his temper, Master Burglar!” Fíli cheered, and there was some emphasis put upon the title, which would have been strange in any case as neither had referred to him as such since gaining rights to his given name.

Kíli broke into riotous laughter at that, and Bilbo felt as though he was rather missing the joke despite being the butt of it. Despite that, Bilbo felt that he had rather a good idea of Thorin’s temper already. They had argued often enough for Bilbo to see that he was quick to anger. Perhaps temperament was measured on a different scale for their folk, then. Certainly, each of these dwarrow had more spirit in them than half of a Farthing could muster for any occasion other than a party.

(Bilbo thought that maybe therein lay the root of the problem; they did not have nearly enough parties to tire out their excitement. He would have to suggest something of the sort once they were settled in Erebor.

If he was still alive to do so, that is.)

The conversation carried on in much the same way; with Bilbo asking Gandalf any questions that came to mind – and there were many, him being a curious Hobbit – and Fíli and Kíli adding their own chatter to whatever subject it was.

They walked for a long time, and the day grew to be unexpectedly hot. He had known, logically that it was Summer, though it had not seemed it up in the mountain passes or beneath the earth. Still he began to sweat uncomfortably beneath his jacket, and he could not bear to think of how the dwarrow fared with their umpteen layers and all that hair besides. Thorin called them to rest beneath trees once or twice, urging them to take water where they could find it, as all their canteens and skins had been lost. Somehow, he always managed to order such right as Bilbo had slipped into that hazy not-awareness that he sometimes did when things seemed to become too much for him to trudge on despite doing so anyway.

Bilbo was glad of it, though his head and stomach both seemed all the worse for the rest. He would almost have rather kept walking, simply so as to have something to distract from the pounding of his skull or the pain of his stomach. The boys had slipped him what little things they found on the side of the rode – a few edible flowers and mushrooms and the like, though most had been simple wildflowers that he had kept and appreciated regardless. He felt so hungry that he would have eaten the acorns from the tress, but he could tell even without looking that none were ripe enough to have fallen to the ground.

(He could have encouraged them to do so before their time, he knew, but he also knew how hard the trees here had worked to set their roots and grow, and he did not feel like spoiling their efforts at expansion for what little relief they would bring.)

Eventually they came up to rising slopes again, and Bilbo felt rather put out to think that they had yet more mountain climbing to do. It was not so, he was assured, as it was only a few little craggy ridges left by the mountains when they had been gouged out by passing ice or something or other that he did not care to listen too. Dwarrow could be terribly long winded about such things, and Bilbo was far too weary to care.

Not until he heard the sound of a horn on the wind.

Bilbo froze on the spot to hear it, turning to face the direction he had thought it sounding from, though it had been faint and nearly lost in the clamor of the Company.

“What is it, Master Baggins?” Thorin called from the front of the party, where he had stopped to look back, as he often did.

Bilbo glanced to him for a moment before he heard the sound again, still faint but certainly there. Frowning in worry, he glanced at the others who had continued along, though many cast him curious looks as they went.

They had not heard it.

Hurriedly, he scrambled up to Thorin’s side, earning many a surprised look for the trouble.

“I, well,” he said, once he had caught up to the dwarf, who looked at him curiously though he did not seem annoyed as Bilbo had half expected him to be, “I heard a horn sound in the distance. Twice, just now, and coming nearer.”

At once, that frightfully blank expression came over the dwarf and he turned to nod sharply at Dwalin, who simply huffed and made his way to the rear of the line. The others watched them carefully, and many fingered the grips of their weapons. Bilbo had not meant to rile them so, but he felt the situation rather called for it. He did not know if Wargs could have caught up to them by now, but he would rather not risk it for fear of causing a scene.

“How far, then?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo balked at the question. He was no ranger! He had no idea how to gauge the distance by sound alone, only that he had heard it and it was coming nearer.

“Er – not close,” he said, terribly aware of how foolish he sounded, but not knowing what else to say, “that way, carried on the wind. Not near enough to see, at any rate.”

Thorin nodded and laid a hand gently on Bilbo’s shoulder before he turned to address the Company. Bilbo stared at his hand for rather a moment longer than necessary before finally listening to what he was saying. In his defense, Thorin had never been one for casual camaraderie like that. Not with him.

“Keep low, keep quiet. Dori, Gloín, fall to the rear with Dwalin. Balin, Bífur, to the front with me.” The named dwarrow nodded and did as they were told, and Bilbo spared a moment of amusement for the annoyed glance Dori cast to Dwalin as he joined him. “Kíli, Fíli, stick to the center with our Burglar. Let us know at once when you hear something,” he said, turning to Bilbo with a smoldering blue gaze, and he felt his poor heart stutter at the intensity there, “Kíli has sharp eyes, he will spot them first.”

Bilbo could do nothing but nod faintly even as the Company shuffled around him, the Princes pressing close in on either side. Bofur, Bombur, Óin, and the younger Ri brothers filled out the rest of the ranks, though Bilbo did not miss the way they clustered tight around the center.

Gandalf meandered along between them all, with no more urgency than he had a moment before, though he spared Bilbo a beatific smile for his trouble.

They continued on this way slowly, and every once in a while, the horn would sound, every one closer than the last, and he would tell them as much. They would stop and Kíli and him would carefully scan their surroundings before they carried on until the next horn sounded.

Eventually, though the horn grew close enough that even the dwarrow could hear it, and the grim looks on their faces doubled. Even Gandalf began to walk with more caution. Bilbo knew that it was not because they did not believe him – the fact that they headed his warning at all proved as much – but that they now felt the breath of the enemy on their necks as surely as he.

They stopped to scan their surroundings once more, and Kíli made a frustrated noise as they saw yet another expanse of desolate wilderness.

“We cannae keep on like this,” Dwalin spoke from the rear of the line, and the rest of them grumbled in agreement.

Thorin frowned mightily and shifted his grip on his sword. Bilbo found it strange that he had become so fond of the Elvish blade, though it amused him all the same. His Father had been the same way with his favorite pipe. He had gotten it from Percy Hornblower – a hobbit he loathed till the day he died, though he would grudgingly admit there was no finer pipe-carver in the West Farthing. Stubbornness he supposed, though it had always been more endearing than frustrating.

“We send a scout,” Thorin said at last. His eyes shot up to meet Bilbo’s with a scowl and Bilbo blinked out of his musings with a shock at the fierceness of it. He did not know what he had done but he rather got the impression that Thorin was upset with him over something. Though there was something about the tension in his brow that spoke less to anger and more to worry. Which was ridiculous. Obviously.

“I can go with him,” Kíli said at once and Bilbo realized with some surprise that Thorin had meant that _Bilbo_ ought to be sent as the scout.

“No,” Thorin said, though he looked like he rather hated the words as he said them, “He is quicker than you and quieter. You would only increase the chances of being caught. No, Master Baggins must go alone.”

Uneasy rumbling came over the Company, though they were careful to keep their displeasure as silent as any dwarf could manage.

“Alright,” Bilbo said, and was surprised even as the words came out of his mouth, “I will go and have a look, but you all must promise to remain quiet while I am gone. I will not have all my sneaking go to waste because you lot are incapable of staying quiet.”

Choked sounds of laughter abounded and Bilbo felt himself smile wryly at the surprised look on Thorin’s face. Truly, he did not want to go.

He was terrified to go.

He would much rather have stayed snug between the Princes’ and behind a wall of dwarven might. But if he stayed there would be arguing, and he did not trust them to argue quietly enough to remain hidden. He could not very well let them bring trouble down upon their heads for no good reason.

So, he found himself climbing over the ridge with as much stealth as he was able. Which was not much by Hobbit standards, up on a craggy hill with hardly enough shrubbery to hide behind, but was more than impressive by dwarven standards. The Company quite lost sight of him before he was even a league away.

As he followed the sound of the horn, terribly loud now to him and more frequent as it came closer, he kept his eyes on his feet and his surroundings intermittently. He could not help but to panic, a little. It was only natural, he told himself, to panic when you were doing something risky with a good chance of being caught. He had never liked being the look out when he was dragged into his cousin’s schemes as a child, no matter how Aldagrim pleaded with him.

(He always did it anyway, because Aldi was older and charming and difficult to refuse, and because he had the best chance of talking himself out of trouble out of the four of them. It was always the same four of them when he got up to trouble in Tookborough. Aldi, and Flambard, and Sigismond, and him - the odd Baggins out. Funny how he had forgotten what that sense of loyalty felt like. Somehow, he had seen less of them over the years, and the sense of unity had faded with age.

He wondered if the Company would be much the same in a year’s time. If they would ever visit their odd Burglar. Provided he ever made it back home, that is.)

He had travelled a few leagues, thinking comforting Shire thoughts as he went, when he first heard the sound of something other than his own feet on stone or the horn in the wind. Snuffling and growling, as of that of a large hound, and his blood grew chilled to hear it.

He sank to one knee behind the stone, breathing labored as he listened.

(Why Wargs? Why not giant cats? Or anything not so distressingly familiar?

He had enough of wolves of any kind - fell or natural, he was sick to do death of fearing them.

Wolves from the North and Wargs from the East, was he to be plagued by nightmares of these things till his dying day?)

Scolding himself and breathing deeply, he gathered his courage and turned to crest the ridge. Carefully, he peaked over the crest, low to the ground as he could manage and quiet as only a Hobbit could hope to be.

On a ridge not far off, a giant Orc sat upon his Warg, both gleaming pale in the dimming sunlight. Bilbo felt his breath catch at the sight of Azog, and the mess of steel where his hand ought to be.

Thorin had done that, he realized.

He remembered Balin saying so some weeks back, before he had ever feared seeing an Orc, or hearing their awful black speech.

Thorin had taken his hand. The same hand that had taken so much from Thorin.

A pack of Orc riders followed Azog, their hounds sniffing at the air, though they were too far to get anything definite, it seemed. Snarling, the beasts turned away, continuing on their hunt, and Bilbo breathed out a slow breath of relief as he slipped back into the safety of shadows.

A snarl sounded to his left, and Bilbo flung himself against the stone with a gasp.

He had been caught.

Azog had been a distraction and some Orc had come from behind to slit his throat. He should have known better. He should have.

Breathing heavily, he peered around with wide eyes.

Instead of an Orc, there some distance off stood some bear like shape, dark in the encroaching dusk, and snarling after the shadows of retreating Orcs. Bilbo felt his heart stutter fearfully at the size of it. It was not any kind of bear he had ever known, too large and too other for such a thing.

Carefully, he stood, never taking his eyes off of the thing and slinking back the way he came. Once he had passed a reasonable distance, he turned about and skittered roughly across stone back to the Company.

“Bilbo!” Someone cried as he stumbled into their midst, though he could not just then say who.

“How close is the pack?” Dwalin asked, before Bilbo had even come to a full stop,

“Too close,” he gasped, trotting into the midst of them, “a few leagues, no more. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“Have the wargs picked up your scent?” Dwalin bit out, and Bilbo could almost hear the curse he kept behind his teeth.

“Not yet, but they will.” He shook his head even as he gasped for air, not doubting it for a moment as they had not looked anywhere close to giving up their chase. “We have another problem.”

“Did they see you?” Gandalf asked, a terribly worried expression on his grizzled face, for all that he been calm till now. Bilbo opened his mouth to answer but Gandalf beat him to it. “They saw you!” He said, grabbing at his robes and beginning to pace.

“No, that’s not it.” Bilbo snapped, annoyed at the assumption, though his assurance only seemed to goad the wizard on.

“What did I tell you? Quiet as a mouse.” Gandalf said, turning to the dwarrow with a pleased smile, as though he had not doubted Bilbo only a moment prior. “Excellent burglar material.”

The dwarrow all began to make noises of agreement and congratulations and what not but Bilbo was quite fed up.

“Will you listen – Will you just listen?” He shouted, throwing around a glare that would have gotten him rather a lot of offense in the Shire. Here it served to silence them well enough and catch their wandering attention at last. “I am trying to tell you there is something else out there!” He pointed back the way he had come with more force than was strictly necessary.

He saw Thorin cast a rather confused but wary glance to Dwalin and felt that at least he had been heard, if not believed.

“What form did it take?” Gandalf asked, his voice grave and expecting. “Like a bear?”

“Ye-” he began only to stop and squint at the wizard suspiciously for his foreknowledge, “Yes. Only bigger, much bigger.” He turned to impress this point on the Company, desperate to make them understand the sheer size of the thing, and caught Bofur’s worried eyes, before he turned back to the wizard who, as always, seemed to know more than he was saying.

Gandalf was always speaking in riddles. Bilbo would not mind so much if only more than a third them had any answer at all. Still, there was something to be said for the secrets and knowledge of a wizard. Bilbo only hoped the larger workings of the world could be bent in their favor, if only this once.

“You knew about this beast?” Bofur asked Gandalf, and Bilbo was rather glad that he was not the only one to catch on to the fact.

Gandalf frowned and turned away, a troubled look coming to his eyes that Bilbo did not like in the slightest.

“I say we double back!” Bofur cried when he received no answer, turning to Thorin in a panic.

“And be run down by a pack of Orcs?” Thorin countered, and the more experienced warriors among them sounded their agreement. Bofur bowed his head to Thorin in a gesture just as much defeat as deference even as he turned to cast Bilbo a pained look.

“We might,” Gandalf spoke up, though it was slow and hesitant, tinged with as much fear as reluctance, “We might make it to that house of which I spoke. It is not far.”

The wizard broke off then and closed his mouth as if to stop himself from saying too much.

“Is this not the house of which you spoke at the Carrock?” Thorin asked though by the suspicious look he was giving Gandalf, Bilbo doubted it was meant to be a question. “You spoke then as if aid was certain, yet now you hesitate. Tell me, whose house? Are they friend or foe?”

“Neither,” Gandalf said, though he did so reluctantly, “he will help us or-” and here he cut a glance to Bilbo, if only for a moment, “he will kill us.”

Thorin frowned at this reluctance even as he read the honesty in the wizard’s words. Though he clearly grew suspicious of the dubious help Gandalf promised them, he nodded.

“What choice do we have?” He asked though it was no question, and just then a roar split the night, casting pale fright over their faces.

“None.” Gandalf agreed, and off they were again, running for their lives.

Bilbo thought, wildly, that they had spent most of this damned quest running, and the rest of it trudging or otherwise dismally marching. Still as the sounds of something large thundering through the brush and boulders followed them, he found such things a futile thought.

They ran from the ridges and down into the grasslands, splashing through little rivers and dodging broken stone. Orcs shouted at their backs, and Wargs howled in delight. Bilbo did his best to keep up, though his lungs ached, and his legs burned. Still, he kept on though he thought every moment he did that he would simply fall to the ground with his next step only to be surprised to take another.

More trees sprouted in the distance, and the whisper of their leaves urged him on, promising whatever safety they could offer if only he made it to their stand. It was here that they ran, and here that they heard it again – the terrible bear like howl, yet nothing like a bear at all. It was louder and deeper and angry in a way that even the most ferocious bear never could be.

For a fraction of a moment all movement stopped, even the bay of the Wargs halted in fright. All looked back toward the thunder that sounded through the brush and wood, into the very earth beneath their feet, and not a soul breathed for their terror.

“This way, quickly!” Gandalf cried into the fearful quiet, and the howl tore the air once more even as he turned to dive deeper into the woods.

Leaping over fallen trunks and weaving between trees, they ran through the forest until at last they came upon another stretch of field, yet unlike the last. Bilbo knew before he saw it. Here wildflowers not only grew, but thrived, blooming and vibrant, even as all manner of bird and beast and bug crawled about their leaves. The earth was not only alive, here it was vicious and vibrant, thrumming in a way Bilbo had not felt in these last three months.

He did not have time to wonder at it.

The howl grew closer and, in the distance, they spotted another stand of trees, only these sheltered a house in their midst. A great fence shielded the home from unwanted visitors but even Bilbo knew that would not stop even one determined dwarf let alone thirteen.

“Run!” Gandalf cried, and Bilbo realized with some surprise that the dwarrow had begun to slow. He had started to outpace them, if only the older and slower of the group, but even that was cause for concern. It seemed that dwarrow were not built for terrified cross-country flights.

It was with some shock that he noticed Bombur pulling ahead of them, his ruddy face gone pale with fright, and his eyes unfocused and fixed on the distant shelter. Bilbo watched him pick up speed with amazement – it seemed that hope and fear could make something incredible of even the most docile of dwarrow. The others found this less inspiring than he and cries of shock and outrage followed Bombur’s thundering steps.

The roar sounded again, and Bilbo found himself picking up speed as the house grew nearer – and lo and behold, the gate was open!

Blessed be the Lady of the Green, Giver of Fruits, because whoever owned the place had left the bloody front gate wide open!

They crossed the threshold at a dead sprint, and Bilbo spared not a thought for the rudeness of it when his heart beat so loudly in his ears. They dashed up the path to the door, and there it seemed their luck ran out.

The door was closed and barred and too large to unlatch besides.

Bombur did not slow as he approached, and Bilbo choked on his spit, thick and disgusting from running, as the dwarf smashed into solid wood with a resounding thud and a groan before bouncing off. There was not a moment to collect him before the others were following his example, slamming themselves bodily into the door in an effort to throw it down. They beat on it viciously, axes and fists, and yet it did not break, only bent, and whined beneath the weight.

Bilbo ran in after them, turning for just a moment as the sound of the roar grew too near, and seeing the – the _whatever it was_ burst through the trees and leap into the sun. Its fur was black and glistening, maw crossed with scars and body rippling with muscled fury. With fangs flashed and Bilbo turned at once to face the door.

“Open the door!” Gandalf cried from behind them, as if they were not _trying_. They were all pressed against it, slamming, and yelling, and prying and it and yet it did them no good at all. Not until Thorin pushed his way through from the rear, yelling something Bilbo could not catch and reaching for the giant metal latch. He threw it open with a grunt of effort and all at once they were pouring into the house.

Gandalf came in last, and already the dwarrow were rounding on the door, pushing the massive thing closed behind them. Something slammed against it before they had managed and a snarling black maw pushed through what was left of the opening, twice as big as Bilbo’s whole body and snapping at them all the while. Screaming abounded, and still the dwarrow pushed at the door, as if they could keep the beast at bay.

Bilbo had his sword out before he knew he had reached for it, blinking away frightened tears even as Kíli screamed some order and ducked out of the way of snapping jaws. Dwalin roared something of his own back at the raging beast and pushed even harder at the door, though it did not seem to do much good.

“Come on, lads!” He shouted, never turning away from the monster. Dori jostled his way to the front and, standing beside him, the two gave an almighty push, which the others backed a fraction of a second later, and all at once the door slammed closed.

Reaching up, they all puled down the massive bar, and sighed almost as one in relief.

Growling could still be heard behind the wood, and snarling led around the walls.

“What _is_ that?” Ori asked, and Bilbo was surprised at the venom in his voice when he did. He would never have thought meek Ori would speak so strongly.

“That,” Gandalf said, with a sigh of exhaustion, “is our host.”

Fourteen faces of shock and confusion turned to him at once, and Bilbo found he barely had the energy for disbelief.

“His name is Beorn,” Gandalf continued, and Bilbo could already tell that he was about to say something that would set off a fit of dwarven temper, “and he is a skin changer.”

Predictably, shouts of outrage and alarm filled the air. Bofur turned in surprise to his family, seemingly to check if either of them had any idea what on Arda the old man was on about. Óin seemed to check his hearing trumpet – not that it did him any good, flattened and cracked – even as Dwalin started at the Wizard threateningly, some dwarvish snarl on his lips. Balin held him back though his own glare was enough to match.

“Sometimes,” Gandalf began, shouting over the din until they all quieted to hear him, “he is a huge black bear; sometimes a great strong man. The bear is unpredictable, but the man can be reasoned with. However, he is not overfond of dwarves.”

Angry rumbling started up anew, and even Bilbo managed a flicker of outrage through his exhaustion. Why on earth bring them to such a fickle refuge? And one who was so bigoted besides! Bilbo couldn’t fathom it.

(Not that dwarrow would have received any warm welcome in the Shire, either. Though Bilbo could safely say this had less to do with their race in particular except that they were not Hobbits, and therefore not worth trusting.

Bilbo was not proud of it. He was beginning to see that a mistrust of all was no better than a mistrust of few where in both cases there was no cause for such reaction other than being different.)

“He’s leaving!” Ori whispered urgently, from where he peaked through the crack in the door.

“Come away from there!” Dori cried, rushing to pry his brother away from the door, hands insistent and fluttering around the younger dwarf. “Its not natural, none of it! Its obvious; he’s under some dark spell.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Gandalf chided, true offense in his voice at the assumption. “He’s under no enchantment but his own.”

Dori blinked at him in surprise, then suspicion, as if he did not trust a wizard to know his own business. For his part, Gandalf snorted and looked to the sky as though in supplication of relief from fools.

“Regardless, you all should get some rest. Off to sleep! You shall be safe here for the night.” He said, turning to wave at the house, large and warm and sized nearly three times the size of a Hobbit. Thorin frowned at him before he turned to scan the place, a tight nod sending dwarrow off to find their beds in the bear-man’s house. “I hope.” Muttered Gandalf, and Bilbo politely pretend not to hear it, even as he felt his heart skip fearfully.

And so, they rummaged around quite rudely, prying into barrels and basins to find food and water, of which there was plenty, though none of it meat. There were neither furs nor any such stuffs made from beast or bird in the home, though Bilbo did not mind it in the slightest despite the dwarrow’s suspicious grumbling.

He was warm here, and fed and watered, though he was too tired to eat his fill – a terrible shame for any Hobbit, though he comforted himself that no one present would know. He even managed to wash the sweat from his skin with a rag before he found a nice little bundle of hay to lay in. He peeled off his coat and stuffed it beneath his head, only barely remembering to remove his new sword before he settled.

He thought he heard whispered argument and shuffling at some point and felt movement beside him, but he was too far gone to open his eyes and glare. He fell asleep soon after and did not wake for a long time.

This night he did not dream, though he thought he heard a hissing whisper in his head, like cloth against stone. He thought of warmth that did not comfort and chains that burned like ice. Gold that brought no wealth and a song that was beautiful and wrong. It was a strange thought for a Hobbit to have, and he thought no more on it before he fell properly into slumber.

* * *

[i] Khuzdul: ‘he who is starved’

[ii] Gwaeval is a name I invented based on the first half of Gwaihir, meaning ‘wind’ and the latter half of his brother’s name Landroval, meaning ‘wing’.

[iii] Tarmaret being Middle English for Turmeric. I think that as dwarrow are not as fond of spices and what not and they live longer lives it would take longer for linguistic drift to catch on for them, certainly when it does not happen at all in their native tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, alright, I did it!  
I'm so sorry that this took so long but life has been really terrible to me as of late - you know what they say, when it rains, it pours.  
I'm not really happy with a lot of what's going on in here, though it seemed important to me that certain scenes and feelings were addressed and I hope I at least did that much.  
All of your comments kept me going, and frankly I wouldn't have gotten it done without them, so thank you all!  
As always if you have questions you can find me on tumblr @AliceTheBrave or twitter @ally_alice_als
> 
> *This Fic now has a Spanish Translation by the wonderful JulianEarthSon, please check it out if you read Spanish!*  
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24118504
> 
> Some Notes:  
I adjusted my thoughts on Hobbit inheritance so that Females could legally inherit land and titles because I like the thought of everyone living in fear of Belladonna somehow being in charge of anything.
> 
> Also I added a much younger sister because I had mentioned an Aunt Periwinkle and then later decided to reference the Three Remarkable Daughters bit and had to go back and adjust it. In retrospect I could have just made her part of a different family, but I like the thought of there being a precedent for adoption before Frodo came along. It's my Fic and I get to choose the cannon.
> 
> Gandalf doesn't take a full bath because the Istari all decided that sweating is gross, so they just don't do it.
> 
> I didn't really want Thorin to find about the 'Prince' thing yet but Kili won't shut up even in my head, so here we are.
> 
> Dwalin's take on this whole Thorin/BIlbo thing is pretty much 'oh great now I have to take of three royal idiots AND a halfling, Thanks.'
> 
> I didn't make up an Eagle OC for no reason she will be important, have faith.


End file.
